


One Shots

by Ooft



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Straight Relationships, gay relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooft/pseuds/Ooft
Summary: One shots for random characters in Skyrim, some real, some original. I'll add more characters as I go along.There'll be characters of all races and places, so don't worry if you want to read about an Argonian or Imperial, I'll get around to writing about them at some point.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 22





	1. Under the Aurora (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argis the Bulwark x Breton-Nord Male Dragonborn (romantic relationship)

Di'relo was sick of Savos Aren. The Arch-Mage had requested yet another favour of him, asking for some dwarven artifacts that Di’relo had already forgotten the names of. He didn't much care for the elf, if he was being honest. Too rude and demanding. Argis, his companion, had laughed merrily at his dismay of travelling to another dwarven city, clapping his hands excitedly and exclaiming something about 'killing those damned Falmer'. 

Dawdling through the freezing streets of Winterhold, Di'relo headed for the Hjiltor Homestead, the house he'd bought a few years back. Argis was at the inn, so he wouldn't be there when Di'relo arrived, which meant he could take a quick bath and crawl into bed for the night. Well, the fitful night. Di'relo couldn't remember the last time he slept well, but that wasn't a surprise, given that he'd known of his Dragonborn ' _ dis _ 'abilities for twenty years now.  _ The pain of being a Dragonborn _ , he’d think each time he woke up in agony, chest feeling as though it were going to burst open, a heavy juxtaposition to his constricting lungs. His body ached at the thought, like it always did. 

The house was close by, a comfort to Di’relo as he rubbed his arms, hoping in vain that it would warm them a little. It only managed to make all the hairy little goosebumps prickle with pins and needles. The Nords always asked Di’relo why he hated Winterhold. Sure, he’d grown up in Windhelm, but that didn’t mean he had to like the cold, did it? His halfer Breton-Nord blood told him the answer was no. 

"Welcome home, my Thane." Argis was standing out in the snow, holding the door of the house open for Di'relo. The stupid, lovable Nord was only in a tunic and thin pants, as if to tease Di’relo who was dressed in three layers of shirts, a jacket and two pairs of breeches. 

"Argis? Didn't you end up going to the inn?" Di'relo asked his lover, lip curled slightly at the term "Thane", something he'd asked Argis to stop calling him. 

"I had a few drinks. Come with me." Argis grabbed Di'relo's hand, leading him through the house and down into the basement, which was mainly used to store magical items such as an alchemy lab (which sat dusty and unused), instructional books and a small arcane enchanter fit only for jewellery, hence why Di’relo rarely used that either. 

"What is it?" Di'relo glanced around, trying to spot anything amiss and figure out what Argis was up to. 

"Give me these." Argis grabbed Di'relo's bags, sliding them from his shoulders and dumping them on the ground. "Now, take your clothes off." 

Di'relo hesitated but did as he asked, biting his tongue before he could swear at the cold air and earn a round of teasing from Argis. "What is it?" He repeated. 

Argis opened the door to the washroom. Steam poured out, filling the room. Di'relo shivered at the feeling of the humid air touching his cold skin and walked through the door, allowing himself to be fully embraced by the heat. 

The bathtub was full of fresh, hot water and Di'relo sighed wistfully at the sight, wondering if he'd come home to a sweet dream. Argis pushed him gently toward the bath, making sure he didn't slip trying to get in. Di'relo settled in the water, closing his eyes and groaning as the heat seeped into his skin. Dirt and grime rose to the top of the water, washing off his body easily. His eyes fluttered open and he watched with fascination as Argis removed his clothes. 

Argis stepped into the tub, lowered himself into a sitting position and spinning around. He leaned until his back was resting against Di'relo's chest. Di'relo cupped some water in his hands and poured it over Argis' head, gently kneading it into his dirty hair and teasing his fingers through. Argis sighed and relaxed fully against him, though Di'relo could hear him wince quietly whenever he tried to untangle a knot. Di'relo clicked his fingers as he remembered something, reaching around at the side of the bathtub before his hands clasped around the bottle he was searching for. He lifted it up and into the tub. 

"What have you got there?" Argis tried to turn his head, but Di'relo moved the bottle out of sight. 

"I bought something from someone in the College once. I'm not sure if it works." Di'relo said as he tipped some of the cold liquid from the bottle into his hand. It glowed a pale green colour and had a slimy texture. 

"Ah, so you're going to test it on me." Argis smiled. "Of course." 

Di'relo ignored the jab, rubbing the liquid onto Argis' hair. It foamed beneath his fingers, frothing up and spreading. He massaged it through the rest of the hair, scrubbing the ends of it with his fingers and getting rid of the knots. 

Argis closed his eyes and tipped his head back, sighing blissfully. Di'relo wanted to ask him to lift his head again so that he could wash his hair properly, but he decided not to say anything when he noticed just how relaxed Argis had become. 

Di'relo cupped water in his hands again and rinsed out all the foam from Argis' hair. He noticed how it all fell limp and loose, completely free of any dirt or grime. 

"I might go to the College tomorrow and buy more of this." He murmured to himself. 

"Mmm?" Argis' eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at Di'relo. 

"Your hair is beautiful." Di'relo sighed, running his hands through it one more time. 

"You're beautiful." Argis turned onto his side, wrapping an arm around Di'relo's waist and pressing his face into the crook of his neck. 

Di'relo chuckled. "Always copying the things I say." 

"We should marry." Argis stated. Di’relo would have been surprised at the spontaneity, but he’d grown used to Argis’ random thoughts. 

"You copy the things I think as well?" Di'relo asked jokingly. 

"I wanna marry you." Argis ignored him. 

"I'll organise a carriage to Riften tomorrow." 

"Riften's no place to get married. Full of thieves, and stinks of fish. I want to do it at home, beneath the aurora." 

"Some of those thieves are my friends!" Di'relo smacked Argis' back lightly, shaking his head and sighing. "You'd wanna get married on top of one of the mountains?" 

"The one above the Keep." 

"I could arrange that." 

Argis hummed softly in response and pressed his face fully against Di’relo’s skin. Di’relo bit back a chuckle when his lover’s beard tickled him. Argis may have been stony-faced and reserved around others, but when he was with Di'relo he became affectionate and needy, a behaviour Di'relo didn't think he'd ever get tired of. 

"Thank you, for drawing me a bath." Di'relo changed the subject entirely before he got carried away with thoughts of the wedding. 

Argis chuckled. "I did it for myself, you just happened to arrive home." 

"For some  _ strange _ reason, I don't think that's entirely true." Di'relo said. 

Argis sat up and spun himself around. He had a bashful grin on his face and his cheeks were bright red. “Now, let me wash your hair.” 

Di’relo obliged, turning around. While his hair wasn’t anywhere near as long as Argis’, it had certainly grown out over the years and was constantly getting lengthier during their travels. Argis poured some of the slimy liquid onto Di’relo’s head, using deft hands to catch any that spilt over him. His fingers slowly rubbed on Di’relo’s scalp, detangling the hair and removing any dirt, letting it run down Di’relo’s neck and into the water. 

Di’relo had his eyes squeezed shut tightly. While he found it comforting for Argis to wash his hair, he was fearful of the water getting in his eyes and blinding him. He remembered when Argis had first done it, and he had worried that he was hurting Di’relo, who reassured him that it was simply his own fears causing him to look pained. 

Argis rinsed all the foam from Di’relo’s hair, before standing up. He held out a hand to Di’relo and pulled him up beside him, strong arms lifting him easily. Di’relo watched as Argis reached down the side of the tub, coming back up with a cloth and goat milk soap. 

He covered the cloth in soap and took it to Di’relo’s skin, wiping away all the dirt and grime and sweat that had formed there over the past few days of travelling. Di’relo did the same to Argis. Even though they had done this many times before, Di’relo could never get over the sheer size of Argis. He may have only been half a head taller than Di’relo, but his shoulders were giant, the muscles rippling with any form of movement he made. Di’relo remembered many nights of simply touching his lover to help himself fall asleep, running his hands across his back and feeling the lumps of muscle beneath the skin until he was mesmerised, lulling off into a slumber for a few hours. 

Argis helped Di'relo out of the bath after the two of them had rinsed off. Di'relo pressed a quick kiss to his lips, before grabbing a towel and drying himself. Argis did the same, but only after flicking the towel at Di'relo and laughing at his indignant reaction. 

Di'relo drained the bath. "This was something else I bought from the person who sold me the hair wash." He held up a small white vial for Argis to look at. 

"What is it?" Argis grunted, suspicious.

"A teeth cleaner." Di'relo opened the vial and put it to his mouth, sloshing the minty liquid around and against his teeth. He handed the bottle to Argis and spat the liquid into the water trough. Argis followed his example, nose wrinkling at the taste of it. After rinsing the trough and putting the vial back in place, Di'relo led Argis upstairs, dumping the wet towels beside the discarded clothes from before along the way and climbing into their bed. 

Argis crawled in beside him and wrapped his arms tightly around his lover’s waist. 

"Sleep well," Argis kissed the back of Di'relo's head, “I love you.” 

“I love you more.” Di’relo smiled. For once, Argis didn’t protest. 

Di’relo closed his eyes, thoughts of the wedding guiding him to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing about love I'll never experience Part 1. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I've rewritten this because it was ~terrible~ the first time. I'm honestly amazed people kept reading after they read that, but I'm very grateful to them. 
> 
> Random Fact: Whirlwind is my favourite Shout; I always collect too much loot and end up encumbered!
> 
> Feel free to comment or suggest or whatever you like, no pressure.


	2. Well Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Female Nord Dragonborn x Male Breton-Khajiit (original character)

Myel was a half-race Breton-Khajiit of Whiterun. He owned a farm on the outskirts and had only started work a few weeks ago, but the people of the city were very kind to him when he came, and the children were endlessly fascinated by him, following him around on the streets and asking to pet his ears. He let them, of course, usually slipping them an apple from his stock and telling them to eat it early, so as to not spoil their supper. They were positively delighted with his presence, and many parents sighed in relief at his arrival. They usually bought things from him simply for the sake of looking after their children; he wouldn’t take money without giving something in return. 

People staying at the Bannered Mare also thoroughly enjoyed his company. Myel always had many tales to tell of his travels: ones of beautiful places and magic and kinship and adventuring and fighting and creatures that seemed much too fearsome to be real. Even the people who didn’t usually drink came and sat around Myel to hear his stories. At times, he’d have to stand on a table so that everyone could see him as he waved his mead around and acted out his words. The only person who didn’t like him was Mikael, but even then he enjoyed the tales and was happy to write songs about Myel’s exploits. 

He had forged friendships easily amongst the people of Whiterun, gathering things for them and helping them in any way he could. He had recovered artifacts long-lost, mended hearts that were broken and, of course, found lots of coin. Despite his wealth, Myel had no interest in fancy clothes or feasts and instead bought gifts for his neighbours, leaving them at their doorstep anonymously. Well, he tried to be anonymous, but was always caught-out for his kind deeds by a guard or gossip. 

One person Myel had never met, however, was the Dragonborn, Gedil. She spent most of her days inside her home or with the Jarl, and Myel had never been able to catch her for a conversation. Her children liked him well enough, as all the children did, but he'd never been able to catch their mother. 

He still remembered when he'd first seen her: he went to Dragons Keep to finalise his living arrangements with the steward of the Jarl when he saw her talking to one of the housekeepers. She had smiled at him over the woman's shoulder, but her gaze didn't linger long enough for him to respond. He wasn't sure who she was at that time, completely unaware of her title as Dragonborn, but just from looking at her he could tell she was something of legend. It wasn't just in her looks (although her glowing, black armour was considerably intimidating) but it was in the way she held herself, her back straight, shoulders wide, legs apart. She was powerful and she knew it. He could see her helmet tucked under her arm, and in the brief few seconds he glanced at her, he noticed her brown hair and strong jaw. She was beautiful, in an average, completely normal, but also completely unnatural and godly way. He didn't know how to explain it, certainly not having a clue where to begin. 

All he knew was that she intrigued him, but that he'd never get any real answers unless he could speak with her. 

Finally, such a day came. Myel woke up and went outside to tend his farm, grabbing harvested goods and milking the cow. A few of his chickens had laid eggs that morning; he now had breakfast for the next week. 

As he put everything in baskets, a voice came from behind him. “Would you like a hand?” 

Myel turned in surprise. No one ever came to the farm, they just spoke to him when he passed by in town. 

It was the Dragonborn, though she looked quite different to when he usually saw her. Today she was wearing a simple tunic and pants, her shoulder-length hair hanging loose, tucked behind her ears. “My apologies, I did not mean to intrude. I am aware that we have not met before, and I wished to change that. I am Gedil.” 

“Myel. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Myel held out a hand for her to shake, checking to make sure his claws were sheathed. 

Gedil gripped his hand tightly, shaking it. “As it is mine too.” 

“Were you in need of anything?” Myel asked. 

“No, I simply needed to stretch my legs. The children have been rather… tiresome, of late, to put it gently.” Gedil smiled. “I’m sure you understand, with them all following you to the market.” 

“Oh, I do not mind. I rather enjoy their chatter.” Myel said. 

“You would not be saying that if you lived with two of them. By the gods, they make more noise than an angry dragon.” Gedil shook her head, chuckling. 

Myel laughed. “Yes, yes, always. Endlessly fascinated by things. Strange to think how we were once as young.” 

“Oh, it is. Would you like any help carrying your things?” Gedil gestured to all the baskets on the ground. 

“I have to finish sorting them first, but I could use the help after. If, of course, it is not too much to ask of you.” Myel could feel his face flush slightly. He didn’t want to make the Dragonborn commit to anything that she’d find unsavoury. 

“I offered to help, and I fully intend to do so.” Gedil said. She leaned down to pick up a chicken egg, placing it tenderly in a basket with a few others inside. 

Myel smiled, then went back to sorting beside her. 

_Thistle for Arcadia, leek for Ysolda, mead for the Bannered Mare and the Drunken Huntsmen… what else? Milk for the Gray-manes, potatoes for the Jarl._

“I have to put the eggs in my kitchen, but then we will load the cart.” Myel announced when they had finished, picking up the egg basket. “Would you like to come inside for something? I bought some sweet rolls from Hulda two days ago.” 

“Oh, if you would not consider me a burden.” Gedil said. 

“Come, come. You are more than welcome to come in.” Myel said, shouldering the door open. He placed the basket down in the kitchen and began putting the eggs in his ice-box. Gedil sat herself down on a chair by the hearth, watching the flames lick the bottom of the cooking pot. 

He got out plates for himself and his guest, grabbing the sweet rolls as well. Gedil smiled gratefully at him when he handed her the plate. She ate delicately, which came as a surprise to Myel, who expected her to eat a little more… savage-like. He didn't mean it in an unkind manner, just that she would have spent many days travelling in the wilderness, and he knew from experience that it could take a while to adjust to fresh food. 

"My thanks, again, for allowing me to stay a while." Gedil sighed. "Life is always so fast, hm?" 

"Yes, well, when you are the famous Dragonborn, I would think so." Myel laughed. 

"Sometimes I take to wondering what my life would be like if I were not the Dragonborn. If I would have owned a farm, or settled with a husband, or become a sell-sword." 

"You could still do each of those things." 

"Oh, I am much too old for a husband. And, the children! They could not handle me being away for more than a few days at a time." 

"I suppose you could buy a farm." 

"I suppose I could." Gedil looked over at Myel, smiling at him. 

"Although, I must say, you most certainly are not too old for a husband. Any man to have you would have to consider himself blessed by the gods." Myel said. He could feel the tips of his ears grow hot. 

"Thank you." Gedil replied. Her cheeks glowed red in the light of the fire, though Myel couldn't tell if it was because she was warm, or because she found him charming. 

"We should be heading into town. I would not want to keep the children waiting." Myel said, taking Gedil's empty plate and leaving it with his own on the dining table. 

Gedil held the door open for him. He locked the door, fixed up his cart, then flicked the reins to begin the journey to town. They were stopped by a group of Khajiit along the way, who bought some potatoes and leeks from Myel. They thanked Gedil profusely when she bought jewellery off them. 

"My daughter will love the ring and my son will love the necklace." Gedil explained. "I usually bring back trinkets from my travels to thank them for behaving. I haven't been travelling of late, so it will be nice to give them something now." 

Gedil was a good parent, Myel decided. She reminded him of his father, who had done the same for his children after a long journey. 

As the cart trundled up to the gates of Whiterun, the guards called out to Myel, greeting him merrily. They nodded respectfully to Gedil, falling silent. 

"They quite like you, hm?" Gedil mused as they entered Whiterun. 

"Yes, I drink with many of them." Myel said. 

"Perhaps I should come by the Bannered Mare sometime. They are just fearful of me reporting them to the Jarl." 

"Come drink with me tonight. I'm sure the people would be delighted to hear of your adventures." Myel suggested. 

"I could use a pint." Gedil nodded. 

"It's Myel! It's Myel!" The children all yelled and ran to the cart, surrounding it. 

"Ma, Ma, what are you doing with Myel?" Froles asked Gedil. 

"I am helping him, child. Where is your sister?" Gedil glanced around the sides of the cart, searching amongst the crowd of children. 

"She is coming Ma." Froles said. 

Sure enough, Torif ran up to the cart and called to her mother. Gedil smiled at her and waved. 

Myel passed apples to Gedil so she could hand them to the children, who thanked both of them before running off. Gedil quickly told her own children that she would be home late, before they too went off and joined their friends. 

Gedil helped Myel set up his market stall, then took to chatting with people as they walked by. Myel noticed that they all quite liked her, smiling and talking merrily. Business was good for the day, with all orders being picked up and people randomly buying produce. 

Myel packed everything back into his cart and led Gedil over to the Bannered Mare. Everyone cheered when they saw Myel, greeting him and Gedil enthusiastically by shoving pints of ale into their hands and clapping them on the back. 

“Myel! Finally, you may tell us the story of Fawn-down Cave!” A guard yelling. 

Myel looked over to Gedil. “Oh, I believe our Dragonborn may have a more interesting tale.” 

Gedil blushed when all eyes turned to her. 

“Go on.” Myel murmured. 

Gedil nodded, took a swig of her pint and climbed up to stand on one of the tables. She faced the crowd before her with a nervous grin. “You all know me to be the Dragonborn, but I must say, I didn’t start off from such… noble beginnings.

“As a young ‘un, I grew up with the scum of the city back in Riften. I would beg and steal to survive each passing day. But that was then, a long, long time ago.

“When I came to be fourteen years of age, I left Riften and became a bounty hunter. I killed for coin, sold my services to… unsavoury characters. Shortly after reaching twenty years of age, I was caught and arrested by the Imperials, then sent to Helgen for execution. 

“During the journey to Helgen, the Imperials captured Ulfric Stormcloak. He was gagged. However, I managed to speak with one of his followers, and I learnt of the true struggle behind the civil war. I made an agreement with Ulfric and the Stormcloak that I would ensure Ulfric found his rightful place in the throne. As you all know, of course, this was a promise that was kept, although not in the way anyone expected. But that all comes later. 

“As I faced the execution block, I spotted a dragon in the distance, and I thought to myself ‘it cannot be real, can it?’ Then he swooped down, and I felt the fire of his breath, and I knew that it was real, and that I was going to die. 

“A kind Imperial cut the bonds around my wrists, and I escaped Helgen with nothing but the ragged tunic on my back. After a few days, I came across Riverwood. Sven, a man there, and his mother, Hilde, they took me in, gave me a place to rest. It was a poor village, under fear of attack from dragons, so I agreed to see the Jarl and request guards be sent there. 

“I travelled here, to Whiterun, and reported the incident of the dragon. I went with a group of guards to investigate a disturbance in the country, where we were attacked by one of the great beasts! We fought for hours, and the thing was Shouting at us, tossing us aside, breathing its fire and snapping at us with the largest teeth and claws I had ever seen. Then, with a lucky shot, I managed to fire an arrow into the beast’s eye and it fell to the ground. 

“Suddenly, the dragon began to crinkle up and turn to dust, as though it were paper in a hearth! This orange… wind, almost, it flew toward me and I could feel it filling my Soul. I felt powerful, and without thinking I Shouted, throwing the guards from my path just like the dragon. I had absorbed the dragon’s Soul, it’s essence. It was incredible. 

“And so that was how I became the Dragonborn. You all know the tale after that, I hunted each dragon down and battled Alduin, and became a legend. 

“But that is all behind me now, and I think much of my other accomplishments remain in the shadow of being the Dragonborn. I could tell many more tales of lost artifacts, and gods and how I ended the Civil War! But I have spoken too long, and I have children to return home to.” Gedil placed her empty pint on the table, getting ready to climb down. 

“Wait!” A guard called out from the crowd. 

Gidel paused. “Yes?”

“Ulfric rules Skyrim, but what of the Thalmor? We have not seen them for years.” 

“I tricked the two of them. I told Ulfric he could have Skyrim, and he took it. What I did not tell him was that a Thalmor would serve as his advisor. Or that an Argonian would look after his finances. Or that a Khajiit would lead his army. I employed the help of a person from each race, made them in charge of something within Skyrim. Ulfric could not protest it without losing his power; I told him if he did, I would battle him for the throne. Ulfric is a proud man, but he is not a stupid one. He knew I could Shout just as loudly as he, so he complied with me and realised that conflict stood small in the shadow of negotiation. 

“The Thalmor did not believe my solution was worthy of their time, originally, but they came around when I… made certain arrangements. They began to work together and understand each other, which is why the peace is still held today. 

“Of course, my negotiations were much more complex than the manner in which I explained them, however you understand my meaning, I’m sure.” 

“What do you plan to do now?” Hulda asked. 

“Well, I do not know. Whatever faces me, I suppose. I plan on spending more time with my children while there are no dragons in need of slaying, or wars in need of ending. I enjoy the quiet. That is not to say you cannot come to me when you are in need; I still wish to travel sometimes, perhaps even take the children along with me.” Gedil answered. 

Myel felt his heart swell at the sight of the brave, incredible woman before him. 

“And, who knows… I may have another companion by my side now.” Gedil flashed a charming smile at Myel. 

He grinned bashfully and took another swig of his ale to hide his flushed face. He could feel eyes on him, watching his reaction carefully and could hear cheering. His ears twitched slightly, tail curling up. He drained his tankard, before walking over to the bar. 

“A toast!” He grabbed another drink from Hulda. 

“A toast!” Everyone held their pints up in response. 

“A toast to Gedil, the Hero of Skyrim!” Myel shouted. The people shouted with him, clinking their tankards, laughing and drinking. 

“I thank you all for your time, but I really must be getting home to the children.” Gedil announced once they had all calmed down, jumping from the table to the floor. She landed on surprisingly steady feet, not anywhere near as drunk as the people around her. They cheered for her again as her and Myel walked out into the night. 

Myel began to walk with Gedil on her way home. His body was tingling with drunkenness and he felt slightly off-balance, but he was glad to be walking alongside Gedil. The silence between them was comforting and Myel felt his heart grow heavy with sadness when they finally reached Gedil’s home. 

“I would like to give you my thanks.” Gedil turned to Myel. “I believe the guards will be much merrier while in my presence from now on.” 

“I should hope so.” Myel chuckled. 

They were silent for a moment, mulling over the night’s events. 

“You meant what you said? About travelling with me?” Myel asked. 

Gedil nodded. “Of course.” 

“Well, I was actually planning on visiting Markarth in the coming days. If you would like to come, I have some business to attend to. Having you by my side may help things.” Myel smiled shyly, rubbing his arm. 

“I will ready my things.” Gedil said softly. 

Myel tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I must be heading home now. It is very late.” 

“Yes. I should head inside.” Gedil agreed. 

Neither of them moved. 

“I will come by the farm tomorrow.” Gedil announced. She stepped forward, pressed a kiss to Myel’s cheek, then turned and went into her house. 

Myel reached up to touch his cheek, grinning. The fur on his ears stood up straight and his heart thumped in his chest, loud enough to echo through the streets. He wandered back to the market and jumped into his cart, feeling light-headed and happy. 

Gedil, the Hero of Skyrim, coming and visiting his farm tomorrow. He couldn’t wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This went in a very different direction from how I originally planned it to go but I think it still went good. Let me know what you think in the comments!


	3. Best of the Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maven Black-briar

"Tell me again why I put up with you?" Maven asked. 

Derral-Lift laughed. "Admit it, you like me!" 

"Yes, well, you make for a good business partner." Maven said. 

"And friend. Confidante. I am the best-of-the-best, none of your others even come close to me." Derral-Lift put a hand on his chest in a victorious pose. 

Maven nodded along to his ranting, not saying a word. Any other man and she would order him to be thrown in jail, but Derral… he was different. Fresh. Capable in his job and willing to do anything; just what she needed in her business. 

"Haelga is trying to seduce my Hemming again. I need you to take care of her." Maven announced. 

"Oh? Take care of her in what way?" Derral smirked suggestively. "Satisfy her needs, or…?" 

The man was vulgar, but Maven laughed. "Do whatever you want, but I need you to steal some things from her. I'll send her a note and she should get the message." 

"You say that like she's a clever woman." Derral said. 

"Yes, well, she may be a fool, but she'll understand when you steal her Dibella statue. Oh, and those disgusting books of hers, the ones about the maid." Maven wrinkled her nose at the thought of the vile things. 

"Consider it done, my lady." Derral stood and bowed, then sauntered out of the room, shutting the door with his scaly tail. 

Maven's favourite room was her own. She liked to lock the door sometimes, although she didn't do it often; just when she needed to breathe. She was a very important woman, after all, and people were constantly trying to speak with her when she was  _ very clearly  _ busy. 

Hemming had brought a cheese platter and a bottle of wine up for her before, but she'd been so busy speaking with Derral that she'd had no time to enjoy it. She poured herself a goblet of wine and slowly lifted it to her lips, taking a sip and savouring it. 

The sweet taste of berry with a bitter hint of ninroot hit her tongue and she sighed in content. Gaalio's Alto Wine. 

The cheeses were delicious. Eldar cheese, aged for different periods of time. Her motto had always been 'the longer it mulls, the stronger it pleases' and she lived by it. Besides in business. Time was money, and while Maven had a lot of money, she didn't like to waste it. Hence why she liked Derral. He never screwed around with her time, always getting the job done as quickly as possible as well as possible. 

Derral had been a great find. He and Maven had crossed paths a few years ago; she found the little thief living under the floorboards in her basement. She'd had half a mind to kill him there and turn his leathery skin into boots, but she had paused and come to realise just how clever he was. He had been living under the house for weeks, hiding from local authorities, while still making lots of coin by stealing Black-briar Mead. 

Maven told him that she'd let him go free, as long as he complied with her every request. He had accepted, and since then, risen to become her most trusted companion. 

He got along well with the Black-briar family, regularly drinking with Hemming. Maven hoped that soon Ingun would sleep with Derral; perhaps it would give her a taste of real life, and not make her want to keep pursuing her silly little potion-making hobby. If Derral couldn't convince the stupid girl to change her ways, Maven would toss her to the streets. Family was family, but business was business, and if Maven was choosing what had stuck by her through her own hard times, well, business had always been there to drag her back to reality. 

"My lady, the deed is done. I present to you a statue of Dibella, a silver sapphire ring and  _ The Lusty Argonian,  _ volumes one and two." Derral held up each item for Maven to see. 

"The ring is ugly. Give it to Ingun, and say it's a present from me. Then say something rude about me to her. Throw the statue out. Actually, no, throw it into the forge and let it melt. The books…" Maven wrinkled her nose at the sight of them. 

"I'm sure they could find a good home." Derral chuckled. 

"Oh, I'm quite sure they could. Keep them out of my sight." Maven said. 

Derral left again. 

As she drained her goblet of wine, she wondered what Derral would say to Ingun when he gave her the ring. She hoped that he would say something truly nasty, or else the stupid girl wouldn't believe him. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by Hemming. 

"A letter came for you." He handed her the letter, then hovered by the door. 

"Is there anything else you need?" Maven stared at him, eyebrows raised. 

Hemming stepped back slightly in surprise. "Uh, no, nothing." 

He didn't leave the room. 

"What is it? Spit it out." Maven sighed. Usually she could put up with Hemming's stupidity, but not when he interrupted her in her room, and certainly not when he stared at her with that dumb look in his eyes. 

"I was just wondering if perhaps… I met a woman the other day, when we went on that trip to Whiterun." Hemming mumbled, staring at his feet. 

Maven shook her head. "Why do you lie to me?" 

"I'm not lying, I met someone!" Hemming said, his voice loud and hurt. 

"Someone? Or that Nord boy, Mikael?" Maven asked. 

Hemming's face turned a crimson red. "I… yes. Him." 

"Why didn't you just say that in the first place, you fool? Wasting my time. What do you want with him?" Maven had half a mind to smack him in the head, but she refrained. 

"I want to marry him." Hemming said quickly. 

Maven chuckled. "No." 

"What?" 

"No, Hemming. This boy is no one, and you're a Black-briar. I will not have you going out and marrying some fool you slept with twice." 

"I love him!" 

"No, you found him attractive." 

"But-" 

"This isn't an argument. Don't test my patience with you, Hemming, you know what happened to Sibbi." 

"Yes." 

"Good. Now get out." Maven opened the letter, not even looking as Hemming left the room. 

As she read the letter Hemming gave her, she found herself becoming increasingly bored. It was some offer in shares for the Black-briar Meadery from a low-life in Markarth. She tore the letter into pieces and dumped it all on the empty cheese platter. 

"Anything else you need me to do for you my lady?" Derral had come back. 

"Can you take Hemming to the Bee and the Barb tonight? He thinks he's in love with some bard in Whiterun, and I can't be bothered dealing with him." Maven poured herself some more wine. 

"Ah, yes. Mikael, was it?" Derral nodded thoughtfully. She wasn’t surprised he already knew and hadn’t tried to tell her. The last time he’d done that, Maven didn’t speak to him for a week, insisting that he had disrespected her role in the family. "Oh, Ingun hated the ring. I told her you were a withering old bitch who should take more of an interest in her daughter." 

Maven smirked. "Well done. Any news about Haelga yet?" 

"She's very upset, and will not bother Hemming again." Derral said. 

"Perfect." Maven relaxed into her seat. "Oh, Derral. If you could get Ingun to sleep with you by Fredas, I will give you a bonus payment." 

Derral chuckled. "You can keep your bonus, anything for my favourite lady. Do I have to keep it to one time, or…?" 

"Whatever you like. Not sure why you would ever want to do it again, but be my guest; that girl needs to learn that there is more to life than those stupid little potions of hers." Maven grumbled. 

"Well in that case, I'll go speak to her now." Derral winked. 

Maven reached into her pocket just before he left, pulling out a bag of gold coins and tossing it to him. He thanked her with a cheeky grin, then sauntered downstairs. 

It was a few more minutes before Maven simply decided to go to bed early. She locked her bedroom door and laid down on her bed, ready for a good night's sleep. She could deal with her family tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't particularly good or detailed, but I find Maven a really interesting character, so I thought I'd write something about her.


	4. Under the Aurora (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at it with my boys Argis and Di'relo (the Nord and Breton)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... they were supposed to get married this chapter but... it went in a very different direction... as you'll see...

The carriage ride was a welcome change of pace. Di'relo and Argis had been travelling around by foot for days, and both of them had grown sick of it. After resting a few days in Winterhold, the pair decided it was time to head back home to Markarth. 

Before they left, Di'relo had, as promised, bought another few bottles of the hair-cleaner, and grabbed a couple small vials of teeth-cleaner for good measure. Tirudoli, the young Imperial who sold it to him, assured Di'relo that they were now legitimate products, with the hair-cleaner being called _shlestu_ and the teeth-cleaner being called _shorsta_. 

The arch-mage had requested yet another favour from Di'relo, asking for some dwarven artifacts that he had already forgotten. He didn't much care for the Elf, if he was being honest. Too rude and demanding. Argis had laughed merrily at his dismay of travelling to another dwarven city. 

Di'relo put away the map he had been trying to read, since the sky had grown much too dark, the first few stars appearing, twinkling brightly. It was good to sit back and watch the world go by. Mountains lined the edges of the road, trees dotting them. A little steam bubbled bubbled between the rocks, and eventually the carriage passed the small pond the water created. Elks lifted their heads in alarm at the sound, before running away skittishly. Birds called goodnights to each other and wolves' throaty howls echoed in the air. Small rocks rolled down from mountains, tumbling down beside the road and coming to rest in small dips in the dirt. 

Di'relo rocked along to the rhythm of the horses' clopping hooves as they trotted along. He gazed over at Argis, who had fallen asleep with his head resting against the side of the carriage. His lover had never liked sleeping while travelling, for fear of bandits, but Di'relo was well aware of how quick the rocking of a carriage put him to sleep. He always left him to rest, using the time to gaze at the countryside or take inventory. 

Before they had truly realised their infatuation with each other, Di'relo had liked to watch Argis sleep, greeting him with a bashful smile when he woke up again. Argis had never suspected a thing, so Di'relo never told him. 

_Perhaps that should be a story for a quiet night at home._ Di'relo smiled to himself. 

Vindrel Hall was home, Di'relo's favourite house, and not just because Argis lived there. No, he loved Markarth for the high mountains, the beautiful aurora and the golden arches. When the Jarl had offered him the home with the highest view in the whole city, Di'relo jumped at the opportunity, buying the house and renovating it as quickly as possible. 

He remembered when he first bought the place and how amazed he had been. The craftsmanship was exquisite, every feature carved in painstaking detail, nothing left to the imagination. He loved it, spending hours just _touching_ everything, marvelling at its beauty and prose and elegance. It was everything he had ever wanted in a home. 

He spent the night there, and waking up to Argis sitting in the dining room was just a bonus. He had been expecting a housecarl to show up, now that he was Thane, but not one this handsome, and a man, no less! He had only had Jordis, Lydia and Iona as housecarls until then, and suspected he would never have a male companion. 

It wasn't that he didn't like women. He loved them. He just found them very complicated and stubborn, rude to him at the best of times and able to hold a grudge indefinitely, only forgiving him on their own terms. He found men much easier to travel with, as they took orders and carried them out, no questions, no hesitation. 

Well, Argis had been good like that for the first few months. When he found out Di'relo had taken a liking to him, however, he exploited it as often as possible and became stubborn, often making sarcastic remarks in regards to things Di'relo had said, or picking on people who had asked Di'relo for favours. Di'relo had found it frustrating, but also annoyingly endearing, so he kept the handsome housecarl around. That wasn't to say he didn't get sent home a few times as punishment for angering Di'relo, but they got along for the most-part. 

Argis looked sweet, although a little uncomfortable sleeping with his head tilted back. Di’relo had half a mind to sit beside him and lean him onto his shoulder, but he knew that would just wake Argis up. 

“You’re the Dragonborn, aren’t ya?” The carriage driver suddenly asked. 

Di’relo nodded. “Yes.” 

“You hunted all them dragons down yet, or…?” 

“I have a few more places to travel to, but I have slain most of them.” 

“You better hurry up then, eh?” 

Di’relo nodded, not saying a word. What was there to say? _Yes, well, now that I’ve slain most of them, the rest are being quite elusive_. No one would believe that, no matter how true it was; they would say dragons were too big to hide away and that he should hunt them regardless. 

Di’relo and the carriage driver sat in silence. Di’relo gazed back across the landscape, grinning at the sight of Markarth in the distance. A soft breeze blew into Di’relo’s face from the east, bringing along cold air and making him shiver. 

The driver swore in the front seat. 

“What’s wrong?” Di’relo asked. 

“It’s a bloody dragon!” The driver pointed just above the mountain to the left. 

Di’relo jumped into action at the sight of the great beast perched up there in a slumber. 

“It’s an Eldar Dragon. Hide the carriage behind the rocks over there and take your horses away. I will deal with this.” Di’relo leapt from the carriage, running over to the steep rocks of the mountain. He sprung up, his feet touching the rock faces just enough for him to leap away onto another rock and take off again, jumping up and making a swift ascent. A few loose pebbles dropped away beneath his feet, but he remained unaffected. 

The summit of the mountain would have made for a nice view of his surroundings, but Di’relo was focused only on the terrible beast before him. Its wings rose slowly as it breathed, hot air coming from its slit nostrils and tail twitching. Di’relo walked slowly and deliberately toward it, unsheathing a deadly greatsword from his back. The double-edges of the blade glinted crimson red against the ebony blackness of the metal. 

Di’relo lifted the blade and brought it down quickly onto the dragon’s wing, slicing through and cutting it off. The creature woke with a start, its other wing flapping wildly as it stood and tipped sideways, utterly unbalanced with just its legs and wing. It roared and flames sprang forth, swallowing the air and billowing out. 

Di’relo stepped back, took a deep breath and Shouted. _I have to keep it unbalanced_. The dragon fell again, roaring loudly. Before it could Shout in retaliation, Di’relo leapt forward and stabbed it in the belly, then ran off again. The dragon snarled and howled in anger, turning sluggishly as black blood gushed from its wounds. It watched Di’relo with savage orange eyes, its tongue slithering out with a hiss. Di’relo cursed as it opened its maw, flames springing forth and engulfing him. He ran to the side, hoping he could get out of the heat, sighing in relief at the feeling of ice cold air. He kept running, but now he was going around to the side of the dragon’s head. 

The beast’s body heaved as it sucked in air, getting ready to Shout again. Di’relo raised his sword above his head, ready to bring the blade down on the dragon’s neck, but it turned and Shouted at him before he could do anything, tossing his body into its side like a ragdoll. Di’relo stood quickly, ignoring the wetness of all the dragon's blood seeping into his clothes and sticking to his body. He glared at the beast, before stepping onto its severed wing and jumping from it onto the beast's back. 

It snarled and tried to throw him off, bucking wildly beneath his feet. Di’relo stayed on, allowing himself to be chucked into the air before landing with bent knees. He climbed his way up to the dragon’s head and stood. 

Everything happened in a blur. 

The dragon threw its head up violently, tossing Di’relo high into the air. His throat closed up as the air became thin and tears streamed from his eyes. He could feel himself begin to drop again, free-falling with no hopes of remaining uninjured. All he could think to do was go down arms first, his sword held out before him, eyes closed. 

It was by dumb luck the sword made any contact at all. Di’relo clenched his jaw as his arms jolted, hearing a distinct wet snapping sound over the squelching of the blade. He opened his eyes to see the blade buried to the hilt in the snout of the dragon and one of his arms crooked. 

_Should have bent my arms more_. 

Di’relo realised a broken arm was the least of his problems as the dragon reared its head, roaring in agony. His grip on the sword began to slip, and he could feel a wet heat encasing his legs. Risking a glance down, he realised he was hanging in the mouth of the beast, and could see its glinting white teeth almost piercing his chest. Di’relo glanced around wildly, scrabbling to get a better grip on his sword, but to no avail. He was sliding down, and he would keep sliding until he simply fell. While he could see both hands holding onto the sword, he knew his left arm (thankfully his non-dominant one) had no grip at all and was simply resting against the snout of the creature. 

After taking a deep breath, Di’relo mustered all his strength and swung himself to the side, ignoring the pain in his chest as the dragon’s fangs ripped away at his skin. He kept swinging to the sides, before letting go and letting himself be flung to the ground. The dragon was still roaring, although the volume was dying down as it finally succumbed to its injuries. 

Di’relo watched as the dragon turned to look at him one last time, its eyes narrowing. It drew in a wheezing breath, before collapsing onto the ground. Blue and orange sparks rose from the body, flying toward Di’relo and seeping into his skin. He inhaled slowly as the power flooded through him, numbing him and calming all of his injuries. He watched as the burns on his arms became better, the blisters disappearing and leaving a red rash behind. 

“Di’relo?” His head lolled in the direction of the voice and he could vaguely make-out the sight of Argis running over to him. 

“You need to grab my sword.” Di’relo muttered, pointing at the sword buried in the bones of the dragon. 

“I need to grab you.” Argis huffed, stepping back and surveying the situation. 

“I’ll be fine. Grab my sword, the dragon bones and the scales, then take them down to the carriage. I can get up, I just need a minute.” Di’relo used his right hand to rub his face, wincing at the pain in his chest and shoulders. 

“Wait here.” Argis instructed. He grabbed the sword and the valuable bits of the dragon, before slowly descending down the mountain. 

Di’relo stumbled into a standing position, leaning heavily on some rocks. He staggered over to the edge of the summit, sitting and lowering himself onto the rocks below. He swore loudly when a small stone dug into his back, but pushed on and continued to climb down. 

“What in the gods’ names are you doing?” Argis yelled up at him. He ran toward the rocks, slowly making his way up to meet Di’relo. 

“I can climb, it’s fine.” Di’relo tried to say, but it came out in puffs of breath, making him gasp for air. His right arm trembled beneath him, unable to hold him up for much longer, his left arm hanging limply by his side. 

Argis sighed loudly, leaping up beside Di’relo and landing on heavy feet. If he didn’t feel like absolute death, Di’relo would have laughed at the lack of grace. 

Di’relo cried out as Argis picked him up, a burning feeling spreading across his back as Argis wrapped his arms around him. With each jump Argis made to another rock, Di’relo winced, his body jolting with each landing. 

Argis glared at Di’relo when he winced for the fifth time. “Quit your whining, Dragon Hunter, or I’ll throw you down.” 

Di’relo swore at him in response. “I’m sorry I’m not as tough as you.” 

Argis ignored him, focusing on dropping to the ground. When they landed, Di’relo pushed at Argis’ chest until he dropped Di’relo’s legs onto the ground and let him stand by himself. 

Di’relo ignored the pain echoing through his body and stalked off, leaving Argis to follow along behind him. His resolve to shoulder the pain crumbled slightly as he staggered along, but he stood up straight and ignored the burning tears coming to his eyes. 

The carriage driver watched in wide-eyed awe as Di’relo passed him. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent when Argis flashed a burning glare his way. 

Di’relo climbed into the carriage and sat down, his whole body relaxing against the seat. The wood dug into his back slightly, but he gazed up at the sky and ignored his pain. The stars twinkled down at him, as if they were reassuring him that everything would be alright, and that the gods would guide him back to health. He sighed when the carriage shifted under Argis’ weight. 

“So,” Argis said, “when were you going to ask for my help fighting the dragon? When you died, or just when you almost did? Wait, that’s right: you didn’t ask at all. Why would you?” 

“I didn’t almost die.” Di’relo snarled. 

“You don’t look very alive.” 

“I’m sorry I’m not as tough as you, Argis, I really am. Now, rather than berating me, why don’t you just shut your stupid mouth?” 

“You almost got yourself killed.” 

“And now you feel the need to tell me off for it? By the gods, leave me be, you’re not my father.” 

“Why didn’t you just wake me up? Come to think of it, why didn’t you wake me up earlier? You know I hate sleeping while we travel!” 

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt! Being Dragonborn isn’t your burden to carry, it’s mine! It isn’t a fun gimmick, or a fair fight. It’s horrifying, and I hate every minute of it, and I hate dragging you into it. I didn’t wake you this time, and I won’t wake you any other times. This is my battle, and I’m not letting you get hurt because of it, because I love you and I care about you and I can’t stand to see you injured, especially when it’s my own fault!” 

“You think it doesn’t upset _me_ to see _you_ injured?” 

“Don’t guilt me, Argis.” 

“You think it doesn’t upset me? It’s as if you don’t trust me to help you.” 

“It’s not that. You know it’s not that.” 

“It feels like it.” 

“Well it isn’t. Stop trying to guilt me, I already feel like I’ve failed you. And everyone. I haven’t even been able to find all the dragons yet, for Talos’ sake.” 

"You haven't failed anyone." 

"I prefer it when you're honest with me." 

"I am being honest. No one is disappointed in your efforts, especially not me. I'm just disappointed that you don't trust me to protect you, to do my job as not only your housecarl, but as your lover." 

"My arm is broken." 

"Your arm is broken, if you didn't notice." 

"Don't be an ass." 

"Don't change the subject. No one is disappointed with you." 

"Are there any healing potions in the bag?" 

"Here." 

Argis reached into one of the bags beside him and felt around. He produced a few random bottles and tucked them between his legs, clicking his fingers in appreciation when he finally found the right bottle. He handed it to Di'relo, watching as he took a large swig, then rebottled it and gave it back. Argis closed the bag with a satisfying click once he'd carefully stacked everything away again. 

"Does it feel better?" Argis asked. 

"Yes, less painful. I'll have to see a priestess of Kynareth to have it mended." Di'relo sighed, caressing his swollen arm gently. It had hurt much less than he thought it would, so he figured that he must be in a slight shock and that he'd wake up tomorrow in agony. He didn't look forward to tomorrow. 

"Why do you think everyone is disappointed with you?" Argis interrupted his thoughts. 

Di'relo tilted his head up to look at the stars again. "I feel as if I should've already hunted down all the dragons, and that people are dying because I haven't." 

"Well, they've all gone into hiding. What are you supposed to do, search and turn up fruitless?" 

"Yes. That's what is expected." 

"Then perhaps people should settle for more realistic expectations." 

"Or perhaps I should try harder to meet them." 

"I don't like the toll this takes on you." 

"I didn't think you'd noticed." 

Argis sat forward in his seat, his expression like that of a wounded dog. "Of course I noticed. Every time you kill a dragon you don't eat or sleep properly for days! I hate seeing you like that." 

"I don't like killing them. Their Souls are… painful to carry. It feels like my chest will rip open and they will all pour out." Di'relo sighed and rubbed his face. His eyes were starting to burn again, the edges of his vision becoming blurry. "It… frightens me. It really does." 

Di'relo wanted to keep talking and tell Argis everything, but his throat was choked with tears and his body ached. Instead of speaking, he put his head in his hands and wept, shuddering with each breath he took, pathetic and weak and sore.

The carriage creaked and tilted slightly as Argis came and sat beside Di'relo, resting a warm hand on his back. 

Di'relo appreciated the light touch and space that Argis gave him; he loathed crying and loathed doing it even more in front of other people. He'd never liked being 'comforted' by others, being touched or cradled or reassured. He always wanted to deal with problems himself, even when it hurt him. 

He wiped away the small tears that had caught on his face, then rubbed his eyes harshly, blinking away the blue spots that appeared in his vision. 

Argis wordlessly grabbed Di'relo's hand, holding it between his own two. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Di'relo's hand, tracing along the knuckles and veins. 

Di'relo shuddered a few more times but soon calmed himself. After wiping his face one last time, he reached over and laid his left hand on top of Argis', upset that he couldn't grab him, his limp, swollen arm proving utterly useless and insensitive to his need of touching his lover.

Argis smiled warmly at Di'relo, leaning in and kissing a tear he hadn't wiped away. He slipped one of his hands out from underneath Di'relo's good hand, caressed Di'relo's cheek, then laced the fingers of Di'relo's bad hand with his own. Di’relo bit his tongue before he thanked Argis, or even worse, started crying again. 

"I love you." Argis announced. 

"I love you too." Di'relo smiled weakly at him, his eyes still red and puffy from crying. As he looked at Argis, he could see amazement in the man's eyes. "What is it?" 

"You're beautiful." Argis admitted. Usually, that comment would be accompanied by a toothy, bashful grin, but tonight he looked truly enraptured, eyes wandering to different parts of Di'relo's face, before coming to rest at his eyes. 

Di'relo chuckled. "I certainly don't feel it." 

"Well perhaps I should grab the mirror from your bags." 

"I'm not sure that would convince me. Don't bother." 

"You should rest." 

"We're only a few miles from home." 

"A few miles of rest is better than none." 

Di'relo nodded and leant his head onto Argis' shoulder. It hurt his back to stretch like that, but he didn't mind if it meant he was touching his lover. Argis must have noticed the slight expression of pain on Di'relo's face, because he shuffled away from Di'relo and made it so that he sat sideways on the carriage bench. He propped one of his legs against the side of the carriage and draped the other over the side, before reaching out and grabbing Di'relo, pulling him in between his legs and against his chest. While it hurt to have pressure on his back, Argis acted as a heat-pack for Di'relo, the heat loosening and relaxing all his sore muscles and injuries. Argis grabbed Di'relo's hands again, rubbing the knuckles softly until Di'relo fell asleep. 

When Di'relo woke again, he was hanging in Argis' arms. He looked around to see the buildings of Markarth looming above them, and people gawking at him. He watched sleepily as they whispered behind their hands, confused and frightened at the sight of the injured Dragonborn. 

"Argis?" Di'relo reached up and touched his face. 

"Oh. Yes, love?" Argis glanced down at Di'relo, before looking back up to make sure he climbed the stairs properly. 

"You don't have to carry me, I'm sure you're already tired." Di'relo said, but didn't try to squirm, for fear that he'd unbalance Argis and cause them both to fall. 

"You're in no shape to wander up the stairs. I've spoken to Calcelmo, and he may be able to mend your arm. He'll come in a few hours." Argis walked up the second set of stairs, sighing softly at the sight of the third set. 

"Put me down, I'll walk." Di'relo insisted. 

Argis ignored him and made his way up the stairs, panting by the end of it. He smiled down at Di'relo victoriously. 

Di'relo grinned and shook his head, reaching around Argis' neck. He grabbed the necklace that was clasped there, reaching and pulling out the key attached. Argis bent down to let Di'relo slot the key into the keyhole of the door, the lock for Vindrel Hall clicking open. Argis pressed his boot against the door and pushed it, opening the home up. 

The house was dark, but Argis navigated it easily, his heavy boots thumping on the stone floor, echoing through the rooms. He laid Di'relo down gently in the bed of the master bedroom and propped him up against some pillows. Di'relo watched as Argis pulled a match from his pocket and struck it, before walking around and lighting all the torches. Di'relo could feel the heat of the hearth drifting into his room and was slowly lulled into a sleepy haze. 

Di'relo wasn't exactly sure what had woken him up, but he could hear Argis cursing quietly, muttering under his breath. Di'relo winced at the pain in his chest as he crawled out of bed. It didn't hurt as badly as his arm, however, which had begun to ache terribly, the pain pulsing. 

Stumbling through the house wasn't easy, but Di'relo managed to make it to the dining room without knocking anything over. 

"Is everything alright?" He asked when he saw Argis knelt on the ground. 

Argis froze and startled. "Oh, it's just you. Yes, I'm fine, I kicked the table and knocked a bowl off. My foot feels like it's going to fall away." 

"Perhaps you shouldn't kick tables then." 

"I'm astounded I didn't think of that sooner." 

"So am I. I suppose Calcelmo will have to chop your foot off then, as well as my arm." 

Argis nodded seriously. "My apologies for waking you." 

"Ah, don't worry. Thank you for letting me rest." Di'relo smiled. 

"How's your arm? You look very pale." Argis stood, winced and limped over to Di'relo. He pressed a hand gently against his forehead. "Your skin is clammy." 

"I'm in a lot of pain." Di'relo admitted. 

"Come, sit beside the fire." Argis wrapped an arm around Di'relo's waist and guided him toward the hearth, sitting him down in one of the seats. He tucked a blanket around him as well and kissed his temple. 

"Thank you." Di'relo pulled the blanket in tighter. 

Argis sat in the chair opposite Di'relo. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier about you complaining. I shouldn't have snapped at you, and being upset is not a good-enough excuse." 

"I'm sorry for making it seem as though I don't trust you. And for ruining the prospects of a wedding anytime soon." Di'relo chuckled to himself, marvelling at his broken arm. 

Argis shook his head. "I want you to enjoy the day, not be burdened by your arm. The wedding can be put-off; you healing cannot." 

"Thank you for understanding." Di'relo grinned. 

"Of course." A soft, sincere smile played at Argis' lips. "Anything for you, love." 

Di’relo smiled back. “I really do love you.” 

“That’s good to know.” Argis was silent for a minute as though he was going to leave the statement at that. Di’relo prepared to chide him, but watched with a satisfied smirk as Argis bit the inside of his cheek and lost morale, chuckling to himself. “ _I_ really do love _you_.” 

Di’relo held his right hand out to Argis, grinning when his lover took it. “I love you more.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are going to need their own side-story or something soon! I don't know if you guys like these two as much as I do, but they're quite likeable in my head and I enjoy writing about them. 
> 
> Anyway, I feel like I might explore different Dragonborns and the way carrying Souls impacts them. I feel like they would all react differently, and while some of them use it for power, maybe some of them deny it? I don't know, I guess I'll just see what I come up with as I go, but feel free to let me know if you have any ideas. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. :)


	5. Of Gods, Nords and Moon-brothers (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an original character I came up with. Her race is revealed in the story, so I won't spoil it here.

Just beyond the city of Markarth, within the mountains behind it, sat another city. One could technically call it another section of Markarth, as it perhaps seemed too close to be another city.

Mawa Breaksky knew better. She may not have come from Skyrim, but she had certainly been there long enough to know everything about it. Important things, like where the best inns were, or where valuable ruins lay, or where bandits liked to camp. Then less important things, like where thistle grew, or where to find trolls or where to avoid spriggans. She knew many things, all the things, yet she wasn't bored. 

Mawa was just getting into this mountain city. Exploring the halls of the old Dwemer was the most memorable thing she had done in her two thousand and twenty-six years of living.

The city was breathtakingly beautiful. With every step she took, something new appeared and she would simply gaze at it, drinking in every detail and nuance. Well, she did that when she wasn't being attacked by automated men and spiders. 

When Mawa had first arrived in Skyrim, she'd only had a very vague idea of what the place was like. Once she began talking to people, she learnt of all the different races and places, but one particular race caught her attention: the Dwemer. Elves who lived in vast underground cities without a care for the world outside, and received the same disregard from the others who shared their land. That was until they disappeared. At first, Mawa heard of the disappearance as a whisper, a curse, but then she asked the right people and read the right books and suddenly she found herself at the doorstep of _Miyrdelghef,_ an old Dwemer city, hidden away from the world, untouched by others. So she took the place as her own, exploring the halls, battling automatons and marvelling at the craftsmanship. 

One thing she found interesting about this place was that it was very much built for living and mining, unlike other settlements, which seemed to be built purely for work or aesthetic. There were halls lined with bedrooms and bathing rooms and living rooms and so many rooms that she couldn’t count them all. She’d certainly tried to anyway. Failed. Vowed to finish the job sometime. 

Oh, and not only did she find the counting difficult, but the _traps_. There were far too many for her liking, and she suspected that they were triggered by her foreign aura; it was too much for someone to simply navigate every day, it had to be triggered by something specific. She just had to figure out what. 

Mawa never had figured it out. She gave up and disarmed all the traps instead, even when it meant ripped out tiles of stone from the floor and taking out all the mechanical parts for the trap. 

There was one mechanism, however, that she _did_ keep. It sat just outside the city itself, like a doorstep. The city rang with a shrill siren whenever pressure was placed on the plates, alerting her to intruders without alerting the intruders of her. It didn’t always work the way it was supposed to (oftentimes the “intruder” was a deer) but Mawa made the best of every opportunity, and saw the animals as dinner, or the intruders as innocent people marvelling at the strange dwarven city. She hadn’t seen many people, anyway. They had no reason to be climbing around behind the mountains of Markarth, unless they knew of the city already and were seeking its vast fortune. 

There was a fortune to be sought, after all. That wasn’t why Mawa had travelled there, she just wanted to explore and had never cared much for petty, materialistic comforts, but she found her breath absolutely taken-away at the sight of all the storage rooms simply full of enchanted weapons and armour. 

As she looked closer at some of the items, she noticed many of them had begun to rust, eaten away by time. 

That was when she realised she was going to stay here for years to come. 

In that moment, she’d felt overwhelmingly sorry for the Dwemer, and the loss of their culture, so she vowed to stay and fix all their things. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to achieve from it. She did it anyway. Sometimes she thought she did it out of belief the Dwemer would come back, other times she thought she did it because she had always felt purposeless, but most of the time she didn’t think at all and just put her head down to do her work at the forge dutifully. 

Smithing had always been a welcome hobby for Mawa. Skyrim was cold, and the heat of the forge reminded her of the warm weather back home, a place she hadn’t been in over a thousand years. She missed it sometimes. But only sometimes. 

The one thing she really loved about smithing was the end product: gold, or steel, or ebony shining in her hands. It was satisfying to run it over the grindstone and watch it sharpen up, to add metal to the weapon and watch as it replaced all the rusted holes, to bang on it with a hammer until it became a shape. She loved it all and worked hard to get the job done. 

Her mother-name, Breaksky, was a smith’s. Back in her home they would smith weapons made of a material known as Skystone. It was a deep blue colour predominantly, but changed colours as the day wore on. Mawa’s best weapon had been made of Skystone. It was a delicate-looking, but hardy greatsword with sharp, glowing edges and a hilt containing a single sapphire, and was bound tightly to her Soul through the use of magic and spells. Whenever her hands were empty, she could feel it in her grip like a ghost. Dreams of hers were often interrupted by her longing for the sword and she sometimes had to sheathe it, then sleep with it resting beside her. 

It was a strange thing to people without a Soul Weapon, but Mawa struggled to explain it. She’d taken to telling people she slept in fear of being attacked, as the truth was far too long and convoluted. 

She'd woken up this morning with her sword beside her. After groggily rubbing her eyes, she tried to recall when she'd grabbed it, but couldn't remember. It didn't really matter, she supposed. She didn't usually remember grabbing it in the night. 

The day was like any other for her: she cooked breakfast, heated up the forge and selected several pieces of weaponry and armour to repair. Today she'd picked out a few beautiful ebony pieces and she couldn't help but hold them against her skin in comparison. While the ebony metal glinted under the light, her skin seemed to absorb it, catching and eating the reflection from the sword she was holding. It was utterly fascinating and made her chuckle at memories of being mistaken for a burnt Redguard. She'd been called so by many people, even Redguards themselves, but once she told them her name they understood that she was just foreign, perhaps cursed in some way to have such strange skin. 

It wasn't strange back in her home. Many of her people were as dark as her; it was part of evolution, helping them camouflage against the dark rocks and dirt of the land. That was back in her people's more primitive days, anyway, when they used sharpened rocks and sticks as weapons. They were not like that anymore. 

Sometimes she wondered if home had changed without her. It probably hadn't. She didn't really care, if she was completely honest with herself. It was boring back there, too idealistic and perfect, run by people who were far from corrupt, with no crime or war or anything of the sort. Not that Mawa liked crime and war, but the occasional corrupt comment and resulting uproar would have made life more interesting. 

Home was boring, this city was not. She shook her head and went to the forge getting ready for a day of work. 

  
  


\---

Mawa had gotten everything fixed up and repaired. She was ready to have dinner and go to bed, but a shrill siren rang out amongst the halls. 

Cursing, she ran to the entrance of the city, climbing up the ladder beside the main door and letting herself out through the small doorway above it. The air was cold, little bits of snow blowing into her face and resting in her hair and clothes. She was standing on a ledge above the entrance to the hall. 

Mawa snatched up her bow from the floor and dusted the snow off it, knocking an arrow. She crept slowly over to the side of the ledge and looked down, her bow following her gaze. Down below stood a young man holding something in his arms. Squinting to try and see better through the snow, Mawa realised the thing in his arms was a child. Another child appeared from behind the man, shivering in his minimal clothing. Mawa clucked her tongue as she proposed her next actions, sighing, putting the bow down and going back inside, sliding down the ladder and lifting a large wooden bar from the door, throwing it open. 

The man standing in front of her was broad-shouldered and muscular, with blonde hair and a wide nose - a true, honest-to-the-gods Nord. 

The boy in the man’s arms couldn't have been more than ten years of age, and the other boy behind them looked about the same. Young Imperial children, judging by the small noses and dark hair. She’d always found it difficult to judge children, however, given that they were far from looking as they would in a few years. 

Mawa was very aware of the children’s potential as a trap (some bandits threatened to kill children, or used them to gain a person’s trust), so Mawa closed her eyes and called on her senses to tell her if there were other threats lurking nearby. Nothing came to her. 

“What do you want?” Mawa called to the man. 

“These children were attacked by a group of bandits. I wondered if perhaps you could shelter us?” The Nord called back, distress ringing clear in his voice. 

Mawa gestured for them to enter the city, holding the door open. If she were to attack, the Nord wouldn’t be much of a fight. His eyes were black and hollow from weariness and his body was slumped with the effort of carrying the child. Despite his weak state, he kept a wary eye on Mawa, but relaxed when she opened her arms and told him to hand the boy over. He hesitated, but then handed him over. Taking the boy’s lifeless body in her arms, Mawa propped his head up against her shoulder and cradled him slowly. 

The Nord and other boy walked through the door. Mawa instructed the Nord on how to bar and bolt the door, muttered a locking incantation, then led them, rushing, through the hallways. Mawa did her best to ignore her guests gasps of astonishment and instead took inventory of the boy’s injuries. 

His eyes, swollen, bruised. Arms, cut, scratched. Legs, the same. Mawa pressed her hand to his forehead and in seconds could feel her hand becoming slick with sweat. He was running a high fever. 

The main infirmary was a little way into the building, but wasn’t too difficult to get to. Mawa laid the boy down on a bed and looked over him again to see if she’d missed any injuries. She lifted his tunic up and was met with a shocking sight; the boy had been bitten, multiple sets of teeth marks riddling his body. 

“You weren’t attacked by bandits. You were attacked by werewolves.” Mawa said to the boy standing behind her. “Why did you lie?” 

The boy was silent as he debated his answer. “I didn’t want Berfarid to be fearful of us. I was afraid he may have refused to help.” 

“And were you bitten?” Mawa asked. 

“Yes, on my leg here.” The boy pulled the hem of his pants up to reveal a large red bite on his leg. 

“You killed the beast, I assume.” 

“Yes.” 

“Sit on that bed.” Mawa pointed at another spare bed. The boy did as she asked and sat down obediently. Mawa opened a cupboard in the corner, sighing as she sorted through all the potions and herbs within. 

Extreme healing, cure poison, minor healing, minor healing, cure disease - that wouldn’t work, werewolves weren’t a disease - extreme healing, healing, cure poison… 

Mawa snapped her fingers when one particular potion caught her eye: a potion of ice. When taking in large portions, the user would cast improved ice combat spells. When taken in small amounts, however, it could bring down a fever significantly. 

She poured a mouthful of the potion into a large ladle, then went over to the unconscious boy and parted his lips gently. He didn’t respond when the ladle first touched his lips, but his eyes fluttered open when the cold liquid hit the back of his throat and filled his mouth. 

Mawa pushed his jaw closed before he could spit it all back out. “It’ll bring down your fever.” 

The boy swallowed weakly. 

It worked instantly. His face became less red and his skin stopped radiating heat, the sheen of sweat on his forehead not reappearing after he wiped it off with a trembling arm. 

“I can’t do anything for the bites, children. Werewolf teeth to skin are like silver to the undead.” Mawa announced. 

“There is nothing that can be done for them?” The Nord, Berfarid, frowned. “There must be some way to save them.” 

“Yes, and that would be to kill them. To be frank with you, my friend, I would prefer to not do that.” Mawa replied. She smirked at Berfarid’s horrified expression, amused that he believed she would even consider such a despicable act. “Come now, I would never kill a sick child.” 

Berfarid gave her a doubtful nod. 

“I can’t say the same for a healthy one.” Mawa said, winking at the boys. They giggled. 

Berfarid shook his head and ignored her, but she caught sight of a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“Now, what are your names?” Mawa asked. 

“Samwel and Nathon.” The less-injured boy pointed to himself first, then the other boy. “We’re moon brothers.” 

_Children born under the same moon. Of course, that’s why they look the same._

“I’ll prepare food for you all.” Mawa stood up. Berfarid did the same, following her through the halls and into the kitchen. 

She didn’t bother telling him she had no intention of poisoning the food. The conversation would prove fruitless; she had learnt over the years that a suspicious Nord would remain so, unless given a good reason to believe otherwise. 

The cooking pot, of course, had already been boiling with her own supper, so she scooped it out into two bowls and handed them to Berfarid. 

“This is for the children.” Mawa said. 

Berfarid took the bowls and left without a word. 

Mawa made some more broth and tipped it into the pot to boil. She chopped up some leek and potatoes while she waited. The large slab of venison she’d put on the spit was roasting nicely, turning brown and releasing a heavy aroma. It was a rare occurrence she ate venison, as it was much too big, and she’d never had anyone to share it with. Tonight was different. A welcome change of pace, she supposed. 

Berfarid came back just as everything had finished cooking. 

“I had to feed them, they’re feeling quite poorly.” He told her as he sat down in a chair beside the fire and sighed. 

“Oh, don’t worry too much about their eating and sleeping,” Mawa replied, “you’ll be wishing they didn’t eat so much in a couple of days. Their sleeping won’t improve, but their werewolf blood will give them more than enough energy to compensate. Until they get older, anyway. Then they’ll just adapt to it.” 

“Will I have to look after them?” Berfarid asked.

“It depends.” Mawa sighed. “They seem quite different to one another. One may take interest in fighting, in which case I’d recommend seeing the Companions, but the other may enjoy magic, which I would recommend speaking to the College of Winterhold about.” 

Berfarid frowned, looking utterly beaten. 

“If either of them were to possess a knack for smithing, enchanting or alchemy, however, I’m sure I could make arrangements here.” Mawa suggested slyly in an attempt to cheer him up. 

He gave her a small smile. “How long until they become well again, do you think?” 

“I’d give it another three nights. Have to keep a close eye on them, just in case the Turn.” 

“They’ll Turn?” 

“Yeah, they’ll switch back and forth a bit, then mellow-out as the get used to it.” 

“Will they be dangerous?” 

“Hard to tell. They seemed fairly subdued, but both of them were badly injured, so I wouldn’t judge them based on that. Hopefully their injuries won’t make them lash out at us. Beasts don’t like being vulnerable, especially around strangers.” 

“How do you know so much?” 

“I’ve been alive for two thousand years! More than enough time to learn about werewolves.” 

“Two thousand years? Are you a god?” 

“No, the child of one. It’s a long story, and too hard to explain to a Nord who’s never left Skyrim.” 

“How can you be sure I’ve never travelled?” 

“You look at me as if I were something exotic.” 

“I’ve just never laid eyes on a woman with purple hair.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I was amazed when I first saw Argonians. I mean, to think: there are people with the bodies of men but the features of a lizard! Incredible.” 

She walked over to the cooking spit and checked the meat. It looked sweet and tender, so she grabbed a large knife and carved it into slices, before simply cutting the excess meat from the spit and putting it on a plate. 

Her and Berfarid dug into their food, eating it quickly. When they were both done, Mawa led him to a bedroom beside the infirmary and showed him how to bathe in the bathroom attached. He was amazed at the stream of hot water coming from the ceiling. 

“They’re called showers, the more convenient version of a bathtub. Anyway, I’ll sit with the boys tonight, you rest. Don’t argue with me either. I’m a god-child, I don’t need much sleep.” Mawa left the room before Berfarid could protest. 

The children were asleep. Being as quiet as possible, Mawa sat down and grabbed a book from the table beside her, flipping the pages slowly as she read. This book hadn't been touched in years, but she remembered when she'd first read it, and how much it taught her about alchemy. It was, after all, the book that had started it all for her, _Songs and Rhymes for Every Alchemist_ , a charming title. 

She read all through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this is part one. Originally I was going to just do a one-shot, but then I got to 4000 words, hadn't published anything for a week and still had some other stuff to write, so I've split it into two. These might become reoccurring characters, who knows?


	6. Stolen Jewels, Gold and Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell by the chapter title, this is some stuff about the Thieves Guild. 
> 
> Just some self-indulgent Brynjolf x Delvin stuff I guess. I don't know if I really ship them, but the idea just kinda popped into my head and I wrote it down. I've had this one sitting in the drafts since the start, but I would start writing it and then lose interest again so I forced myself to finish it today so I could get something posted for you all, since I haven't posted in over a week. Sorry! 
> 
> Just a quick language warning (not coarse language)! This may be hard to read for people not familiar with the English language (and maybe even people who are), because the dialogue is written in the way I think the characters would speak, something I often do with my writing. If you're having difficulty reading it, just let me know, and I can post a version where all the dialogue is in perfect English and grammatically correct, or I can tell you what that line was.

"Time to take invent'ry." Brynjolf sighed, slotting his key into the door and turning it. 

"Fantastic! Show Mercer how much be'er off we are withou' 'im, eh?" Delvin clapped his hands with excitement, closely resembling a child on their Name Day. Despite the looming prospects of misery and boredom while taking inventory, Brynjolf grinned at Vex, both of them playfully rolling their eyes at Delvin. 

"Aye." Brynjolf replied to Dlevin. He watched carefully as the other man turned his key in the lock and pushed the doors to the vault. Brynjolf sighed in relief at the sight of all the money sacks and chests, remembering the last time he’d been in here. 

"Alright, let me know when you get to ten, I'll come and help you count." Vex called as she walked off. 

"Very funny!" Delvin yelled back. Vex flashed him a cheeky grin in response, sashaying away. 

The two men exchanged a solemn nod and stepped into the vault. They pushed the doors closed behind themselves and Delvin locked it again. 

"Why're ya lockin' it?" Brynjolf asked. 

"Well, I'm not sure 'bout you, but I don' wanna be int'rupted by anyone while I'm tryin' to count our money." Delvin said. 

"You've got a point, lad." Brynjolf locked the door with his key. 

"Now," Delvin clasped his hands together tightly and grinned at the sight of all the treasure. "let's get countin', shall we darlin'?" 

Brynjolf sighed and opened one of the chests, plonking himself down in front of it. He bit his tongue before he sighed again; they were going to have to sort everything as well. The chest was full of loose septims and random weapons, all varying in type and variety. He started by grabbing out the daggers and dumped them in a pile behind himself, before moving onto one-handed swords, then axes and two-handed warhammers and greatswords. 

He looked over to see Delvin doing the same with gems, holding a magnifying glass close to his eye and examining the quality of each jewel. Occasionally, he made a ‘hrumph’ sound and tossed the gem toward the door. Brynjolf assumed his carelessness meant they were fake. It was no reason to make such a mess, but Brynjolf didn’t chide him for fear he’d make him take inventory by himself. Brynjolf almost shuddered at the thought of the endless tedium. 

“Aw, look at this beauty!” Delvin exclaimed suddenly. 

Brynjolf looked over to see Delvin holding a large diamond above his head and grinning madly. 

“Look at ‘er!” Delvin waved it a little, making it impossible to see. 

“What price would it fetch?” Brynjolf asked. 

“Well, with that Dragonborn leader of ours, she’ll ‘ave contacts in ‘igh-up places, won’t she? I reckon she could sell it off for a pretty price.” Delvin smirked with satisfaction. “I’m thinkin’, oh, maybe nine’een ‘undred septims, maybe more.” 

Brynjolf whistled. “I like the sounda that.” 

“I can ‘ear the sack o’ coins jinglin’ right now.” Delvin grinned. 

Brynjolf grinned back at him. Delvin held his gaze a second too long, before turning away with a contented sigh and putting the diamond in a separate spot, away from all the other gems. Brynjolf cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away from Delvin and getting back to his own work. 

Everything was going smoothly with the weapon sorting until Brynjolf got to the daggers. Unlike all the other weapons, the daggers had become a messy pile, the blades pointing in all different directions. The first thing he had to sort was iron daggers, then steel, then dwarven, elven and glass. Finally, he got to the last few. They were still rather messy, but he felt refreshed at the sight of all the other weapons being sorted, so he reached excitedly for a red, glowing ebony dagger. 

“Ah damn!” Brynjolf yelped, retracting his hand. He had severely misjudged the gap between the ebony dagger and a daedric dagger next to it, slicing his hand open on the way through. The blood dripped from his fingers and onto the floor. 

“You awright?” Delvin looked over at him, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah, just my hand. I’m alright.” Brynjolf cradled his arm, watching as the blood continued to swell up and drip from his fingers. 

Delvin stood and walked over, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and folding it up. He knelt down beside Brynjolf and gently took his hand. After surveying the cut, he began to wrap the handkerchief around Brynjolf’s hand, tying a tight knot at the palm, wiping the blood off his fingers and patting his shoulder. 

“Leave tha’ on there for a bit. Don’ worry if the blood soaks through, jus’ tell me if it starts drippin’ everywhere again.” 

“Thanks for this.” Brynjolf held his hand up so Delvin could admire his handiwork. 

“That’s awright sweet’eart. Anythin’ for you.” Delvin winked. He grabbed Brynjolf’s hand and checked it over again, his calloused fingers ghosting over the makeshift-bandage. After a while of flipping Brynjolf’s hand over and checking to make sure his fingers were clean, Delvin finally let go of him and went back over to the gems, sitting down without making a sound. 

Brynjolf put his good hand over his mouth and face, making it look as though he was deep in thought. He’d actually done it to cover his red cheeks; he didn’t want Delvin to see and start teasing him for it. 

He supposed he’d come to like Delvin over the years. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, or how that worked, but he just did. Seeing the man and feeling slightly happier had become part of everyday life, but he was surprised no one had picked up on it yet. Vex was usually one to notice small changes, but she hadn’t mentioned anything to Brynjolf about the significant increase in visits he made to the Flagon in the past few weeks. It was a little unnerving. 

The Dragonborn, Lila, had mentioned it to Brynjolf, although she had made a point to not tease him and decided to encourage him with some words of tough-love. She’d been rather blunt with him about the whole thing and he was thankful for it. Gods know, someone needed to keep his head in the game, for he certainly wasn’t. 

“I know you injured yaself, but you needa get back to work. Plen’y more ta be done.” Delvin reminded Brynjolf. 

“A’course.” Brynjolf snapped out of his thoughts and picked up the greatswords, carefully stacking them back into the chest. He finished putting all of the two-handed weapons away, then moved on to the one-handed ones, mindful of the wickedly sharp blades. 

"I reckon we get stuck inta the coin for now, Bryn. Worry about the armour a bit la'er." Delvin said, heaving a large sack of gold. It landed with a clink and a thud when he dropped it on the ground. 

Brynjolf nodded and closed the weapons chest. He grabbed out the biggest sack of coins, careful to not spill them everywhere when he opened it up. Delvin was sorting through the smaller sacks, tipping the coins out everywhere and getting them ready to put in a chest. 

For a while they sat in silence and counted all the coins, putting them in stacks of ten and then bagging them away when they got to a hundred. 

Brynjolf was halfway through counting when Delvin decided it would be funny to distract him. 

"Twen'y-four, seven'y-eight, nine'een, fifty-one." He had stopped counting and was watching Brynjolf suffer. A mischievous grin stretched across his face. 

"Stop it, you fool." Brynjolf snarled, still trying to count. 

"Two, nine'y-eight, forty-six." 

"I'll make you do this by yourself." 

"I've locked the door, mate. There's no escapin' me." 

"I'll give you no bloody escape." 

"Snappin' back, are we? Well, I never." 

"Shut up. I'm tryin' to work." 

"I never shu' up by myself, you know tha'. Might need a… helpin' 'and." 

"What?" 

"Was Lila bein' a tricky bitch the other day? Is she playin' with me?" 

"What?" 

"She said- oh, never mind. Jus' bein' a bitch, she was. Not that that's anythin' new, eh?" 

Delvin chuckled to himself, shaking his head. 

Brynjolf ignored him and went back to counting, glad Delvin had finally shut up. 

After filling several sacks and chests with septims, the two men sighed in relief and admired their handiwork. It had taken hours, but Brynjolf was glad they'd finished the main work, more than ready for another day of sorting out the finer details. 

He gave Delvin a smile and a hand up from the ground, before stretching his arms as far upwards as he could. 

Delvin allowed Brynjolf to unlock his side of the door first. He twisted his own key in the lock, then pushed the doors open with a grin. 

"Well, I'm off to 'ave a drink at the Flagon." Delvin announced. 

"I'll join ya for a bit. Then I'm off ta bed." Brynjolf followed Delvin toward the bar. 

Vex was in there, as usual, sitting at her table and scribbling away on a bit of paper. Brynjolf and Delvin sat down with her. She was scribbling down a floor plan of a house in Windhelm, mapping out all possible entrances, blind spots and risks. She'd just come back from Windhelm two nights ago, so it wasn't surprising to see that she'd picked out a house to loot next time she was there. 

A smile broke out on Vex's face at the sight of her two friends. "So, how'd you two go? Didn't have any trouble with the counting, did we?" 

"Not like you would've been able to 'elp us if we did." Delvin teased her. 

Vex punched him in the arm, chuckling. "You keep telling yourself that." 

Brynjolf watched them quietly over his drink, pondering on what Delvin had said earlier about Lila. He'd called her a 'tricky bitch', which wasn't unusual, but saying she told him something, and then not even wanting to repeat it to Brynjolf? That was… odd, to say the least. He didn't like it at all. Delvin would take any opportunity he could to have a chat, but he fell dead silent after the talk of Lila. Maybe he had feelings for her? Lila didn't seem like his type, though. Delvin had always gone after lithe, petite women with a fire in their heart in past times, and Lila was… well, she certainly wasn't lithe or feisty. Being an Orc, obviously she was built like a house, with a blunt way of speaking and a cynical view of the people around her. She wasn't one to banter or jest, she just got her work done whether she liked it or not. 

Why had Delvin brought up Lila? 

"Bryn, mate, you awright?" Delvin looked over at Brynjolf. 

Brynjolf snapped out of his thoughts. "Yeah, just thinkin' about the job tomorrow. Tha's all." 

"Gonna be bloody annoying dealin' with all that armour, eh?" 

"Can' complain, I s'pose. Better than when Mercer took all our bloody loot." 

"True. Wish I could punch his ruddy ghost." 

"Wouldn' solve anythin'. I'm glad we killed 'im when we did." 

"Yeah." 

"How'd everything go today?" Vex asked, breaking into the conversation. "You sort everything okay?" 

"Yeah, sorted the weapons, gems and coins." Brynjolf replied. 

"Well, Bryn  _ tried  _ to sort the weapons." Delvin said. 

"What do you mean? What happened?" Vex looked worried, brows creased and a frown on her face. 

"Oh, I jus' cut maself. Nothin' bad." Brynjolf held his hand up for Vex to see. The bandage was still securely wrapped around, although the blood had soaked through it, making it appear black and look much worse than it felt. 

"Looks pretty bad. You sure you're alright?" 

"Yeah, I was jus' bein' a fool. Nothin' to worry about." 

Vex nodded. 

They sat in silence and finished their drinks. Brynjolf excused himself to get ready for bed as Vex and Delvin moved on to their second round of ales. Delvin protested a little, but Brynjolf was surprised he hadn't put up more of a fight against him leaving. 

Brynjolf walked into the bathing rooms connected to the Cistern, grabbing a towel on his way in. He went over to the bath in the farthest corner and stripped off, climbing in and letting the hot water consume him whole, save for his head. With a content sigh he focused on the feeling of all his muscles expanding and loosening in the heat. It felt heavenly, especially after a day of sitting around on the hard dirt floor and counting all the money. 

He wasn't sure how long he stayed in the water for, but the handkerchief around his hand had come loose, floating to the surface of the water. 

"So, 'ow long exac'ly have you been in the bath? I've had two drinks since you left." Delvin's voice echoed through the room. 

Brynjolf turned to see Delvin standing a few metres away from him. He thought to cover himself up, but that would just draw more attention to his nudity, and it was unlikely Delvin could see anything beneath the rippling surface of the water. 

"You sneak in?" Brynjolf asked. 

"Nah, never." Delvin smirked. 

"Did you uh… need somethin'?" 

"Yeah. Well, I need ta tell you somethin'." 

Brynjolf wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded in a way he hoped wasn't suspicious-looking. 

"I'm not just sayin' this 'cause I'm tipsy, by the way. I… I've got feelings for you, Bryn. And, I spoke to Lila the other day and she said I should jus' tell ya how I feel, but I thought it would ruin our future jobs together and honestly, I like bein' jus' friends with ya, so I didn' wan' ta say anythin', but then today I realised that you didn' feel the same way as me, but I also realised I should jus' fess up and ge' it over with so tha' you didn' have to hear it from someone else, or wha'ever and… yeah. Tha's it, really. Tha's all I wanted ta say. I'll leave you to it, see ya 'round, maybe. Sorry." 

Delvin lingered for a few seconds, watching Brynjolf's face anxiously. When Brynjolf didn't respond, he tipped his head in a nod and turned around, walking off toward the door. 

"Wait a moment." Brynjolf startled when he processed what Delvin had said. He stood up hastily, almost slipping in the bath, and cambered out, water dripping all over the floor. Delvin didn't stop, but slowed down slightly. He did stop, however, when Brynjolf reached out and grabbed his shoulder. 

Delvin turned and immediately looked down. "Ya couldn've grabbed a towel?" 

"Not with you bloody runnin' away from me." Brynjolf growled. "Although I'm fairly sure you've spied on me takin' a bath before, so this isn' anything new to ya." 

"Well, from a distance. Can' say I'm disappointed with the view up close." 

"My eyes are up 'ere. Now, why'd you think I didn' 'ave feelin's for ya?" 

"I've been flirtin' with ya all day!" 

"When? What?" 

"I dunno, but I know I've cer'ainly been flirtin'. By the gods, you're thick." 

"You're the thick one, thinkin' I didn' like ya!" 

"'Ow in bloody Oblivion was I s'posed to pick up on tha'?" 

"You think I come ta the Flagon 'cause I like it there?" 

"You think me 'oldin' your 'and and lookin' after you was just a friendly thing?" 

"It was a pre'y nasty cut, so yes, I did, actually." 

"You were blushin' after!"

"So 'ow was that not an indica'or?" 

"'Cause maybe you were just embarrassed at actin' like such a damn fool!" 

"Maybe both of us are jus' thick, then." 

"'Specially you." 

Brynjolf rolled his eyes and ignored the comment. 

"What now?" 

"I think I need some clothes." 

"Nah, I think it's awright." 

Delvin grinned, but let Brynjolf walk off and grab his towel, watching as he wrapped it around his waist and scooped up his clothes from the floor, then drained the bath. 

He beckoned for Delvin to follow him out of the room and back into the Cistern. They went to Brynjolf's room, where he picked out some clothes and put them on. 

"What 'appens now?" Brynjolf asked. 

Delvin hesitated. "I'm on a bedlam job day after tomorrow. Come with me?" 

"I s'pose. Not tha' you'd need ma help." 

"Eh, an extra pair of 'ands is always good. Even jus' one is useful." 

Delvin grabbed Brynjolf's injured hand from earlier and checked it. The cut had swelled a bit, but it wasn't bleeding or oozing, which was always a good sign. 

"Thanks fer patchin' me up." Brynjolf whispered. 

"Not a problem, swee'eart." Delvin smirked at him. 

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, eh?" Brynjolf murmured, but didn't step away from Delvin. 

"What, not even a kiss goodnight?" Delvin's smirk grew wider as a blush came to Brynjolf's face. 

It came as a shock when Brynjolf leaned in and kissed him. 

"Weren't expectin' tha', eh lad?" Brynjolf grinned. 

Delvin shook his head, cheeks feeling hot. "No." 

"Goodnight." Brynjolf guided Delvin to the door and opened it for him. "I'll see you in the morning." 

"Awright swee'eart. Get some sleep. Big job tomorrow." Delvin stepped out. 

Brynjolf fell onto his bed, but he wasn't sure he'd get a good sleep. His head was buzzing, blood pumping as though he was being chased by guards. 

After a minute, he felt his body seize up, and he was gripped by panic. Him and Delvin would be all alone in the vault tomorrow, and gods knowing Delvin, the bastard would try and start something. 

Brynjolf found himself kind of looking forward to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story! I had a bit of fun writing it (even if I found it kind of difficult to write) and might write more about the Thieves Guild. Hope you didn't find the dialogue to hard to read. 
> 
> Just a quick question for any of you who'd like to answer: do you find my writing funny, or see the humour behind it? I'm genuinely curious, because I do try to have genuine light-hearted banter, but I don't know if others find it funny or not. Please feel free to let me know in the comments, and don't be shy to say you don't find it funny!


	7. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric Stormcloak x Nord Male Dragonborn, but I promise it's not what you think. 
> 
> Yeah, I got no idea where in Oblivion this came from, but I wrote it and it's super wild (literally, haha), so enjoy!

Forlaf glanced at the men around him, glad the rocking of the carriage hid his shaking body; a strange Stormcloak man had just told him of their fate in Helgen, where they would all be publicly executed in the name of peace, with Ulfric Stormcloak being the main attraction. 

Forlaf hadn't meant to get caught by the Imperials. He'd just been skulking around the mountains and hunting when they grabbed him and shoved him into the cart, muttering something stupid about him interfering with their travels and kicking up too much of a fuss to be let go. 

"We die like men today." The Stormcloak man told Forlaf, as if that would make everything much better. 

Forlaf didn't say anything. Instead, he tried to look at the scenery around them, trying to take in every last detail of the land in which he had taken refuge his entire life, a place that had sheltered him, inspired him and nurtured him. He would die today, but he would die with the image of Mother Nature smiling at him. He would return to Her loving embrace, no matter what happened to him. 

The overwhelming sense of watchfulness came over Forlaf and he glanced around as he tried to figure out who was staring. Gulping, he realised it was Ulfric, who was gazing at him with large and curious green eyes, as though he was trying to figure something out before he met his demise. The gag around his mouth made his staring more unnerving and Forlaf found himself wanting to untie it, to hear what the large man's voice would sound like. Of course he wanted to undo his own hand ties first, but something about the animalistic nature of Ulfric made him want to reach over and release the beast lurking within. Maybe if he would just undo the gag and leave his hands tied, still restrained, but able to rip him apart on a whim… Forlaf sighed. There was no point in fantasising now, not when he was about to die. 

Even though he had been caught-out, Ulfric continued staring at Forlaf. If he hadn't been so familiar with the hunting gaze of a wolf, Forlaf probably would have thought Ufric was just lost in his thinking, but he was definitely watching him. 

The gates of Helgen opened with a creak, Imperials all calling to each other as they directed where certain carts would trundle to and what the men inside should be doing. Village-people lined the sides of the road, curious about all the action occurring within their little town. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves and pointed, exclaiming their observations, entirely unaware of their parents' pained, knowing smiles.

After the carts slowed to a halt, all the men inside were dragged out and ordered to line-up. Their names were called individually and marked off, Imperials not showing even the slightest hint of emotion. The first man was called to the execution block. Forlaf watched, expressionless, as the man's head fell into the basket beside the block, the lifeless eyes fixing themselves on the sky above, as if looking to the gods and calling them down in a challenge. 

The second man to die was called forward. He nodded and smiled at the executioner, gave him a wink and got on his knees, slowly lowering himself down to rest his neck on the block. The execution-axe glinted in the sunlight, rising high in the air, before swinging down gracefully and landing with a heavy thud. The second head dropped into the basket. Another dead body crumpled on the other side, awaiting a burial or perhaps just a burning. 

The third man went. Another head, another body. The fourth, the fifth. Forlaf was called. He stepped forward hesitantly, stumbling along when one of the Imperial men pushed him. Before kneeling down at the execution block, Forlaf looked up to the sky and closed his eyes, praying for the Earth Mother to take him in Her arms when he died. He knelt down and laid his neck on the cool rock, his head sickeningly close to the severed heads of the men who died before him. 

A shout came and suddenly all the men around him were running wild, drawing weapons and pointing at the sky frantically. Forlaf remained on the ground and whispered a thank you to the earth beneath him, kissing the dirt. He had prayed to Mother Nature for a quick death, and She had saved his life in return.  _ Of course,  _ he thought to himself,  _ She would never abandon us _ . Forlaf looked to the skies, wondering what the Mother could have possibly conjured up to save a dangerous man like Ulfric Stormcloak from certain death. 

A roar shook the ground and stone flew through the air as a dragon smashed through one of the towers. Forlaf looked at the beast in awe, marvelling at its spiked head and yellow eyes. How had the Mother created such a beautiful and yet terrible creature? 

Forlaf yelped as he was yanked by the tunic into a standing position. An Imperial man sliced his handcuffs off and shoved him away, yelling something about getting to the Keep. Fire had sprouted in all directions, eating at the air, houses and grass all around. Men and women dragged their children around, trying to avoid flying bits of stone and stray arrows, all of them heading to one large stone building in particular - it must have been the Keep. 

Not wanting to risk getting captured again, Forlaf ran to the main gate of Helgen and kicked its lock as hard as he could. It didn't work the first time, so he tried again, cursing when his leg slammed into the door and pain shot through him. 

"Go under!" An Imperial woman ran over to Forlaf and dragged him down onto his knees. Forlaf took her advice and laid down, rolling through the gap under the gate and scrambling to stand up again, taking off and running down the road beyond. 

The sound of roaring faded behind Forlaf as he ran, his legs pumping hard and arms working. He ignored his breathless panting and pushed harder, all too aware of the wolves howling in the mountains around him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Forlaf was so distracted by the wolves that he didn't hear the sound of galloping horses down the road. 

"Are you a prisoner from Helgen?" An Imperial soldier called from atop his horse. 

Forlaf stopped short. 

"Cuff him." The Imperial said to another soldier beside him. The man did as asked, tying Forlaf's wrists tightly. 

The soldier shoved Forlaf into a walled cart and the group started riding again, heading back toward Helgen as fast as they were able. Soon, they stopped, and Forlaf assumed they had reached the town. The soldiers were all shouting orders and drawing swords. 

"That's Ulfric!" One Imperial yelled. 

"He isn't gagged!" Another called. 

"Kill him on sight!" 

"Slay them all!" 

"For the Empire!" 

The clashing of steel echoed all around and Forlaf could hear men spitting and swearing at each other, jeering and ripping into their opponents as they fought. Eventually, the sounds of battle died out, finally ending with the choked gargle of a man whose mouth was full of blood, struggling to take his final breath. The doors of the cart flew open and Forlaf gulped at the sight of a sharp blade-tip pressed to his chest. 

"Ah, our fellow prisoner from the carts." It was the Stormcloak man from before, the one who had told Forlaf what was going to happen in Helgen. 

"Ralof, put the sword away. Leave him be." A deep voice ordered. 

Ralof grinned and sheathed his sword, offering his hand out to Forlaf. "Need a hand there, friend?" 

Forlaf shook his head and stood up, stepping out of the cart by himself, cursing when he almost fell on unsteady feet. A few men and women laughed and he looked around, eyes wide and body stiff. So many soldiers… they pressed in around him, hostility and vicious humour in their gaze. 

"Aye, stand down." The voice from before came from the left. 

The soldiers all stepped away, but watched intently as their leader came forward. 

"What's your name?" Ulfric Stormcloak strode up to Forlaf. His sword was still in his hand and he was wiping it down methodically, sneering down at all the blood. 

Forlaf didn't answer, shifting nervously between his feet. He needed to leave these people. 

"You will answer the High King when he speaks to you!" One of the soldiers stomped her foot and jabbed her sword at him.

"I ordered you to stand down, Elisa. The man doesn't have to answer to me if he doesn't wish to." Ulfric waved her off and tossed away the cloth he was using to clean his sword. 

Forlaf ducked his head in respect. 

"What he  _ does _ have to do," Ulfric sheathed his sword, "is accompany us for dinner." 

Forlaf wasn't sure how to respond. Did he speak up and refuse? Run? Weep? This beast of a man had just asked, no,  _ ordered  _ him to have dinner with an army of fully-trained soldiers. Forlaf decided to do nothing and simply met Ulfric's mirthful gaze with his own empty stare. He supposed he would have to go. 

"Can you not speak, boy?" An older man asked. 

Forlaf pretended not to hear and wandered over to one of the few horses that hadn't bolted during the battle. It nickered and almost reared when he approached it, but after smelling his outstretched fist and reading his own anxious body language, it allowed him to pet its snout. Forlaf reached for its mouth and removed the reins still attached, tossing them to the ground in disgust and rubbing around its maw, hoping it would sooth any pains caused by the hard steel and rope. The horse whinnied in appreciation and Forlaf could almost imagine it sighing heavily when he removed its saddle. He dumped it down beside the reins and petted the horse's back, admiring its glossy brown coat and black mane. 

Forlaf listened as the soldiers sorted out their next move, allocating horses for different people within their group. 

"No, put the injured in the cart. I will ride a horse, or walk, if there isn't enough space." Ulfric said. "Unlike the old High King, I have respect for the men who fight in my battles." 

"And what of the prisoner?" 

"He isn't our prisoner. He can take the horse he has, if he wishes." 

Forlaf stepped away from the horse and did a short run-up, leaping onto its back in a fluid movement. A few of the soldiers snickered at the sight, but Ulfric's eyes narrowed with keen interest. He nodded to Forlaf, checked the injured men, spoke to Ralof and mounted one of the spare horses, holding the reins loosely in his large hands. He ordered the Stormcloaks to march in his wake. 

Forlaf considered his options. It appeared Ulfric had been joking about having dinner, but his animalistic nature had Forlaf doubting his judgements. Clicking his tongue and tapping the horse with his foot, Forlaf circled the soldiers and rode up beside Ulfric. 

"Ah, so you  _ are _ joining me?" Ulfric grinned. "My mother always said I had a way with beautiful people." 

Forlaf bit his tongue before he actually responded. A wolf playing with his food: that's what Ulfric was. 

Ulfric had begun staring at him again, but Forlaf ignored it and kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. The wolves from before had stopped howling, something Forlaf found very unnerving. The wind whispered through the trees and occasionally a rabbit would skitter across the path, squelching as it was struck with an archer's arrow. 

"It seems we're having rabbit stew tonight." A woman riding a horse said to Ulfric. 

"Indeed." The response was short, like the man was distracted, but Forlaf didn't dare turn to look at him. While one should never turn their back on an animal, Ulfric was an exception. Fear struck harshly in the heart of anyone who hunted publicly, even if the hunter was the Jarl of Windhelm; looking at him would be a death sentence. 

Forlaf tilted his head back and sniffed the air around him, parting his lips slightly to incorporate his sense of taste. A sharp, bloody tang hung in the air. Forlaf clicked his tongue and slid down from the horse, jogging ahead of the group. Ulfric called for the company to halt. Muttering and cursing immediately rose from the group, drowning out other sounds around them. 

Forlaf swore quietly and muttered a spell. "Fu-re-lif." The guards' voices grew quieter in his mind and he focused instead on the land around him, listening as the wind whispered along the ground, as water bubbled in a nearby stream and as, most importantly, a wolf stalked through the snow. 

Forlaf moved in the direction of the wolf, the bloody scent from earlier growing stronger with each step he took. He went still. Red eyes glowed from a mile away, the shaggy coat of the wolf bristling in the bitter wind, its hackles raising at the sight of an enemy. It stood, unmoving, for a moment, before leaping into action and running toward Forlaf at full speed, blood flying from its fangs and coat. 

Forlaf was steadfast in his position, unwilling to stand down from the wolf. He waited until it was only a few metres in front of him and then he whispered, watching as the beast leapt at him with open, snapping jaws. "Duul." He ducked down at the last moment, allowing the wolf to sail over the top of him and land back on the cold ground, skidding and scrabbling to get a grip with its claws. 

The wolf cocked its head at him curiously, shook off its coat and took off again, running back to the mountains. Forlaf sighed heavily, calming and centring himself before he jogged back to the waiting army and jumped onto his horse. 

"That was the Thu'um, was it not?" Ulfric asked. 

Forlaf didn't answer, clicking his tongue and willing his horse to begin trotting again. 

"When did you study with the Greybeards? You're certainly as quiet as one, surely you learnt with them. Perhaps after I did? You seem younger." Ulfric spoke softly, as if to himself. 

Forlaf kept a steady gaze on the road ahead and ignored the questions. He listened as Ulfric instructed his soldiers to begin marching again, pondering on their groans of protest. This certainly was the road back to Windhelm, but Forlaf was curious as to how long Ulfric would make his people travel. It would be a week's journey to the city at this pace, and providing camp for all of them would be no easy feat. Forlaf supposed they could join with a Stormcloak camp along the road, but he doubted even that could suffice as a place to set up. Forlaf assumed there would be gifted hunters among the group, Ulfric being the most prominent, but Forlaf didn't like the idea of them killing animals for their own benefit. No, these people had no empathy for other creatures and did not understand the ways of the Mother, had no appreciation for Her beautiful creations and no respect for Her hard work. Forlaf sighed at the thought and petted his horse, threading his fingers through its mane anxiously as he debated a course of action. 

The most obvious solution was to hunt  _ for _ these people. Time, however, was something Forlaf was all too aware of in the presence of other people.  _ All too focused on what they can and can't do, and when. No time to appreciate the beauty of Her world, no time at all. _ If he didn't hunt, though, these people were sure to severely damage the land and risk destroying it. 

"Where will we stop, my lord?" The woman who had spoken to Ulfric before asked. 

"There's a camp a little way up the road; they should have a few things there, or at least enough to tend to our injured. If they lack provisions, we will just have to move on." Ulfric told her. 

Forlaf urged his horse to go faster, wanting to scout ahead and find the camp. Ulfric was watching him closely, but unlike the first time Forlaf had strayed, he didn't call for his people to halt and instead allowed for Forlaf to pursue his own whims. 

The camp was quite close. Forlaf cursed and slid off his horse, willing it to go on to the camp without him. He took to the woods and found elk tracks, following them silently, sneaking with his knees bent and feet creeping. The gorgeous creature stood in a small clearing, the setting rays of the sun glinting brightly on its antlers. 

"Gi-ro." Forlaf murmured. The animal dropped dead, its body landing in the snow with a soft thud. 

Grunting, Forlaf lifted it up and onto his shoulders, calling on the land around him to give him strength and carry the Mother's gift back to the army. He could hear them all clamouring at the camp, so he trudged that way, glad, but also dreading the sight of the fireplace set up in the middle of it. Ulfric stood beside the fire and was speaking with several of his people, giving them orders and instructions. He appeared very distracted, however, when Forlaf knelt beside the fire and slid the elk from his shoulders, resting it gently on the ground and caressing its fur. One of the soldiers came and handed him a knife, which he took and nodded gratefully. Forlaf placed the knife on the ground and looked to the sky, thanking the Mother for her gift. 

Picking up the knife again, Forlaf admired the weight in his hands. Weapons weren't something he had ever taken interest in, given the strength of his Voice, but he admired the way they were made, and marvelled at how Mother Nature had given people the intelligence to create such complex things. Pressing the blade to the stomach of the elk, Forlaf dutifully sliced it open and removed all the unsavoury parts, tossing them into the fire. His lips parted and moved as he mouthed a blessing and apologised to the beast for his inability to honour its body. Soldiers watched on curiously as he deftly skinned and sliced the elk apart, laying its furs on the ground neatly and sorting the meat into specific chunks, tossing fatty bits into the fire. One of the men came and tried to take some of the meat but Forlaf had glared at him icily, stopping him dead in his tracks. 

Forlaf grabbed the pole for the spit and began sliding the chunks of meat onto it. It was repetitive, methodical work and calmed his nerves significantly after killing the poor elk. He had never been one for slaying another creature, sticking mostly to vegetables and fruits he could forage, but when he was called to eat meat he obeyed, making sure to honour every part of the animal he was able to, even if it meant leaving its entrails in a spot where another animal would find them and eat them. 

Looking around at all the soldiers, Forlaf realised he would have to hunt another elk. He stood and walked out of the camp without glancing back, though he could feel many pairs of eyes resting on him. 

Stalking through the bushes, Forlaf tracked another elk down and followed it as it wandered among the trees. Forlaf froze when he heard twigs snapping behind him and watched as the elk bolted, leaping into the shrubs and disappearing. 

"My apologies, I didn't mean to disturb you." Ulfric said as he strode up to Forlaf. 

Sorrow wasn't evident in his tone, but Forlaf didn't say anything to him, distracted by his instincts of wanting to run. Running was impossible at this point, however, given how close Ulfric was standing, his brutish form engulfing Forlaf and the air around him. 

"Why don't you speak?" Ulfric murmured, stepping closer to Forlaf. His head hung low as he tried to force the other man into eye contact. 

Forlaf gazed up at him, offering no reaction to the question. 

"You think me a wolf, don't you? You look at me as though I'll snap you up and eat you." Ulfric's fingers ghosted his cheek. 

Forlaf held his ground. 

"What are you going to do to me, hm? Whisper a little Thu'um, perhaps? Maybe I'll even encourage you to speak." Ulfric sneered. "How can you speak the Thu'um? Mustn't it always be Shouted?" 

Forlaf's skin prickled as Ulfric's hand trailed further down his skin, coming to rest at his throat. 

"Do you feel threatened yet?" Ulfric pressed his fingers down. 

Forlaf made no move against him, watching Ulfric's face carefully, gauging as much emotion as he could. The man appeared quite hardened and brutal, yet Forlaf could feel the presence of sensitivity and tenderness hidden away somewhere. 

"What will you do to me?" Ulfric closed his fingers around Forlaf's throat. 

"I only Speak the words of my Lady." Forlaf said. His voice, despite its lack of use, did not crack and he spoke firmly, a warning tone hidden deep within. 

"Who is your Lady?" Ulfric asked. 

"Mother Nature. She Speaks to me in the Thu'um, but not as you know it." Forlaf replied. 

"Oh, so it is different to the dragons?" 

"Of course. The dragons know nothing of their own tongue, nothing of the Speech. The Mother only blesses a few with that knowledge." 

"Yet it is still the Thu'um?" 

"The Power of the Tongue, yes. Possessed by few, learnt by even fewer." 

"Ah, so I'm a special one, then?" 

"If that is what you make of it. To be a Speaker is no such fickle title, however. You give your Soul to Mother Earth, and She provides for you in return." 

"Do you ever Shout?" 

"To Shout is to overexert Power where it is not needed. No, I have no need for Shouting." 

"Could you teach another the Speech?" 

"Not unless my Lady wished it." 

"How do I speak to your Lady, then?" 

"You cannot speak to her. You must obey the laws of nature and she will bless you with Speech." 

"Why do you not fight me? My hand is around your neck and yet you stare at me as though we were a thousand leagues apart." 

"You ask many questions. Perhaps you should take the time to think them through and answer them yourself." 

"You fear me, in a way, although you also admire me. You wonder what it is to be hunted by one as intelligent as yourself. The animals, you can defend yourself easily, but another person, it isn't as simple." 

"Perhaps you should figure out your own answers more often." 

Ulfric nodded slowly. His eyes flashed dangerously and Forlaf wondered what he would do next, curious as to how this could all play-out. 

"You said I would have to obey the laws of nature to gain an audience with your Lady. What does that mean?" Ulfric asked. 

"To respect the land and all that exist within it. To not kill without reason. To live with the belief that all the Mother's creations were created equally, and that each has its own strengths and weaknesses." 

"And you live by these rules?" 

"How could I not?" 

"Then what is your opinion on the civil war?" 

"I think it is a fickle thing and that no man stands any chance in the shadow of Mother Earth. Both the Thalmor and the Stormcloaks hold the wrong beliefs, and either party ruling would lead to some form of unbalance." 

"The unbalance already exists, however. I am trying to create peace." 

"No peace can be created through war. You only campaign for Nord-rule in Skyrim, not for all people to be treated equally. You believe the Thalmor are bigots, yet you never take the time to reflect on your own beliefs." 

"Then what would you suggest I do, Speaker?" 

"Agree to assist the foreigners of Skyrim without hesitation. Offer them your unwavering support and your steadfast nature. That would be a true king's ruling, anyway, but you ask the opinion of a man who doesn't care much for politics. 

"Perhaps that's why I asked." 

"Or perhaps it was because you wanted to gauge information. Ask me your questions, by all means, but don't expect much from them." 

"Your counsel is sound. How do you know of ruling? Did your Lady make you King of the Mountains?" 

"I would suggest answering it for yourself, but I must say, that would be quite difficult when there is no correct answer. I don't care much for ruling, but it seems common sense to know that you must accept all people. And you misunderstand my Lady; nature cannot be ruled or overthrown, especially not by the likes of man." 

"You seem to be the most prominent hunter in the wild. Does that not make you a ruler?" 

"Thinking I was a ruler would make me a fool. You may think of yourself as a king all you like, the High King of Skyrim, even, but you will never compare to the Mother." 

"Come to Windhelm with me." 

"Seems a rather foolish notion. Why?" 

"Your counsel is sound and I could do with a new advisor." 

"Yes, well, you could also do with a lesson in Power, but it seems to me like it would fall lost on deaf ears." 

"Try and teach me." 

"I already have." 

"Teach me again, until I understand. A king is nothing without his people, and  _ he  _ must serve  _ them _ , not the other way around." 

"You seem to have taken a liking to me very quickly. You realise the danger of this, yes? Not to mention the absurdity." 

"Yes, well, I make an exception for men like you." 

"Men like me?" 

"You are very pretty." 

"Seems hardly a reason to trust me." 

"I think you're more concerned about whether or not  _ you _ trust  _ me _ ." 

Forlaf didn't respond to that. Ulfric's hand was still wrapped around his neck, though the wild glint in his eyes had softened into curiosity. Forlaf wasn't sure if the curiosity was more unnerving than the glare, but he did find himself wishing Ulfric was still tied up. 

Ulfric was very still, his chest barely moving as he breathed. His warm breath hit Forlaf's face, stirring his hair and encasing him, keeping him trapped and unable to run. Longing suddenly washed over Forlaf, his stomach rolling and pulling toward Ulfric. The grip on his throat tightened slightly and as Ulfric leant forward, Forlaf did the same, closing his eyes and admitting defeat. 

You never took your eyes off a predator, but it didn't matter when he'd already caught you. 

As their lips touched, Forlaf wondered why the Mother had brought about this occurrence. She had a plan for Ulfric, Forlaf was sure of it. What part did he play in it, though? 

Fear coursed through Forlaf's blood as Ulfric wrapped his large arm around his waist and dragged him in close, pressing around and encasing his body. He could feel Ulfric's thumb rubbing his throat harshly, grazing the sensitive skin with his nails, almost as if he would sink a claw in and rip through, killing Forlaf in an instant. A low, throaty growl came from Ulfric as he pushed Forlaf back into a tree, forcing his head against the rough bark and pressing him into it, as if trying to crush him by sheer force. 

Running out of breath and unable to satisfy Ulfric's incessant hunger, Forlaf ducked his head away, tilting sideways and gasping for air. Ulfric's eyes were gleaming again and he smiled, his teeth glinting in the last few rays of sunlight. 

Forlaf felt hopelessly trapped. Why had the Mother done this to him? What did she want him to do? Love this beast? It didn't seem possible. 

"What is it?" Ulfric was still wrapped around Forlaf and was holding him tightly. 

Forlaf shook his head, not wanting to say a word. 

"I frighten you. Why? You play the part of the prey, yet when I kissed you, you responded in kind. Does that not show you your predatory side? The knowledge that, deep down, you are a hunter, not the hunted?" 

"I know what I am. What I was. I was once a predator, but to you, I am nothing but prey. The Mother told me to be yours, so I am yours. That makes me prey." 

"I can imagine you are quite a tasty morsel." 

"If that is what She orders, then it must be so. She saved us both in Helgen. She has a plan for us, and we must follow it, wherever it may lead us." 

"It leads us to Windhelm. You'll act as my advisor and warrior, serve under the crown of the Stormcloaks." 

"So be it." 

"'So be it', indeed." 

Ulfric leant down again to kiss him, though this time he wasn't as hungry, seeming satisfied with what Forlaf could give him. When Ulfric was content, he pulled away and led Forlaf back to the camp. 

_ If only She had let me finish hunting before She sent him,  _ Forlaf thought. The soldiers had done their own hunting while he was away and from the looks of it, they had been excessively wasteful. Deer carcasses lay on the ground, bones and scraps of fur discarded in the dirt. Forlaf frowned and turned back to the forest, his stomach rolling and flipping at the sight of such horrific practices. He stripped a berry bush of its fruit and climbed a tree, settling into its curling branches for the night. Pressing his knees to his chest, Forlaf fell asleep, wondering what other plans Mother Earth had waiting for him. 

When he woke in the morning, he found Ulfric Stormcloak lying at the base of the tree, leant against the trunk and sleeping soundly. Chest rising and falling softly, Ulfric twitched in his sleep for a moment and Forlaf was tilted his head a little, intrigued by the brief sensitivity he displayed. 

_ Another time _ , he thought,  _ the Mother will tell me _ . 

And tell him She did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really strange to write, not gonna lie. I've never written a religious character before, so.... I don't know, maybe I butchered it a bit. 
> 
> I'm not going to write another part for this, but these two might pop up somewhere else (yes, I am working on a secret project no one knows about) and I guess we'll just have to see where they take me. 
> 
> If you hadn't noticed already, I have another Skyrim series that I've started called 'I am the Dragonborn', which explores something I touched on in one of my one-shots, where my character Di'relo deals with the feeling of his dragon Souls on a daily basis. Basically, this work is just a series of short stories revolving around the Dragonborns and how each of them deal with their Souls. There will be ten chapters and ten themes in total, however I've only published one so far. Once I've finished this series, I'll begin working on my secret thing, though that will be published sometime in the future. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!


	8. Cleaning Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a request! 
> 
> Vilkas x Nord Female

Frida watched as the final Silver Hand dropped dead, head rolling over and stopping at her feet. She kicked it aside harshly, heart still pumping dramatically from the heat of the battle, her body heaving with each breath, arms trembling from the sudden loss of movement. Sheathing her warhammer, she sauntered over to one of the bodies and patted it down, clicking her tongue with satisfaction at the bag of coins hanging on the belt. 

"We'll make a lot of money out of all these disease potions." She announced, grabbing one from the floor. 

"Lycanthropy isn't even a disease." Vilkas growled as he shook off the last of his Beast fur. 

"Certainly not one cured by these, anyway." She carefully packed the potions away into her knapsack. 

Vilkas spat blood on the ground. "I've got a mouth full of their filth." 

"Shouldn't have lost concentration and given into the Beast then, eh?" Frida teased. 

Vilkas grunted in response, stalking around the room. He looked over piles of pelts on the tables and picked some up, folding them and packing them into his own bag to take home. 

The pair worked silently as they finished cleaning everything out, Frida piling the bodies into a corner once she'd finished with them. Given all the loot they were carrying, she guessed she'd make around three thousand gold when they finally got back to Whiterun, plus the coin the Silver Hand had been carrying, which would take her to about five thousand in total. She thought to announce it to Vilkas, but bit her tongue and decided against it when he tossed a silver sword into a burning hearth, cursing and muttering to himself. 

Vilkas had been… emotional lately. Not that Frida thought he was weak for it, but it made her incredibly uncomfortable and she wasn't sure how to reach out to him, as there was a chance he would react badly to her. Given how closely they were working, it was vitally important she didn't upset him for any reason, whether she thought she was doing the right thing or not. 

She had settled on keeping her wits about her and joking with him as often as possible, hoping that maybe for once he'd actually laugh, or even just smile. That hadn't happened yet, but Frida kept going. She wasn't deterred easily, or that's what her father had always said, and she believed him; he'd always been considered very wise by people all over Skyrim, giving sage advice freely and whenever he could. 

"What did that sword ever do to you?" Frida asked, smiling. 

Vilkas glared at it, watching as it glowed red. "It was used to cut down my brothers and sisters, to kill them without remorse. The Silver Hand will pay for what they have done to Skyrim." 

"We've only a few more camps to go, and then our work is done." Frida said in a light voice. 

"And yet they will rise again, and again, and again, killing more and more of us in cold blood. When does it all end?" 

"It will. It has to. The Silver Hand are no match for the might of the Companions, and I'm sure people all across the land will help us. We only need to ask, Vilkas." 

"We can't have just anyone helping us." 

"Why not?" 

"The werewolf blood is a closely guarded secret!" 

"And? The Silver Hand are practically organised bandits! I'm sure there's plenty of people across the land who would be quite eager to put those vermin back in their place." 

"This is an issue for the Companions." 

"Then why am I here?" 

"You have ties to important people." 

"And when did that ever matter to the Companions? The whole point is that you all fall outside of politics and world-affairs. You fight for honour and glory, to protect each other." 

"You're… different." 

"I'm not. I'm just like everyone else, only difference being that I can fight." 

"No, you're different. You're not like the rest of them." 

"You're not making sense." 

"You're not listening to me! We can't employ the help of the people,  _ we  _ fight for  _ them _ ." 

"You're being ridiculous and you know it." 

Vilkas didn't respond, huffing and picking up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and stomping out. 

Frida sighed as well and grabbed her things, following Vilkas at an ambling pace. She could hear him muttering to himself up ahead and swinging his arms around. Little bits of stone came away beneath his feet as he trudged up the stairs, bouncing down in Frida's direction. 

As they came out of the tower, Frida marvelled at the sky. Night had fallen, and she hadn't even been aware they'd spent the whole day hunting down the wretched Silver Hands, completely losing all sense of time as she worked. Her heart felt heavy at the thought of all the poor werewolves she'd been forced to kill, but she reminded herself firmly that they were too tortured to readjust to average life, and that she was simply putting them out of their misery. The thought also eased her mind a little. 

Vilkas said something about setting up camp at the top of one tower before sauntering off. Frida walked over to the southern tower and climbed the stairs inside, dumping her bag down at the top and gazing out over the surrounding land. Hills sprawled before her, dotted with bushes, trees and rocks, streams bubbling merrily between. Cows and sheep grazed lazily on the grass, making Frida wonder if they were owned by a farmer or were just simply wild. 

Stars dotted the sky above her, the moon looming close in the sky, as it always did during the summer. While Frida was one for action and movement, she always remembered her mother’s most valuable lesson from when she was a little girl: sometimes, one had to step away from conflict and try to make the best of the view. Frida breathed deeply through her nose and took in her surroundings, focusing on her heartbeat and the feeling of the wind whispering through her hair, stirring it ever-so-gently. 

Footsteps scuffed on the stairs. Just by the pace of his footfall, Frida could tell it was Vilkas. She listened closely as he dumped something hard and heavy on the floor, before wandering over and standing beside her, his arms resting on the wall of the tower. He tilted his head up to look at the sky with Frida, exhaling heavily. 

They stood in silence for a long while, watching as the world seemed to pass them by and progress. The sheep and cows had moved on from their grazing and now laid on the ground, dotted all about and drifting off into a peaceful slumber, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of predators. A few of them woke when a mammoth lumbered past, but many of them slept on, undisturbed by the shaking of the ground. Wolf howls echoed through the mountains and bounced in the air, but they faded eventually and the night became still and silent, the tower too far from the ground for Frida and Vilkas to hear any bugs hiding in the grass. 

Vilkas turned to Frida. “I’m sorry for acting like a fool before.” 

“It’s alright,” she waved him off, “I know how upset you’ve been getting lately. It wasn’t my place to challenge you like that.” 

“No, no, you were right to. I’ve been treating you unfairly. I do respect you, and I respect the way you fight, and I appreciate that you fight in the Companion’s battles.” Vilkas sighed. “But when I say you  _ know  _ people, and that’s why I let you fight with me, I mean it. I know you and Di’relo don’t get along, but he is like family to me and if he trusts you, I do as well. That is why I allowed for you to fight.” 

“I understand.” Frida said. 

“I do think you’re right, though. We should consider reaching out to the people of Skyrim. We have sworn to fight their battles, but we can’t fight theirs and our own, it’s not feasible.” 

“I think you would be surprised how many farmers can wield an axe as well as you or I.” 

“I don’t think they could be as good as you, but I’m sure they would have a few tricks up their sleeves.” 

“You flatter me.” 

“I don’t do flattering. I will never tell a woman her place in the world, she should know it herself. If she is beautiful, why must I tell her? If she is kind, why must she hear it from me? No, Frida, you know how well you fight. I don’t need to tell you.” 

“Thank you. You’re quite skilled yourself, hm?” 

“I should think so. I’ve been fighting since I was a wee thing.” 

“Oh, I’m the same. I’ve never been good at anything else, really.” 

“You’re very kind to me. That’s something you’re good at, even though I make it difficult.” 

“Please! You? Difficult and moody? Never!” 

“I take it all back, you wound me with your horrid words.” 

Frida laughed, head thrown back and shoulders shaking. She calmed herself after a moment and looked to Vilkas, who watched her with a small smile on his face. Biting her tongue, she refrained from telling him he should smile more often. Although, she had to admit, it did make him look even more handsome than usual, brightening up his whole face and demeanor. 

“I grabbed firewood for our camp.” Vilkas jerked his thumb over his shoulder and pointed behind himself. 

Frida strode over to the logs and arranged them into the position for a fire. Before she lit it, however, she took one last look at Vilkas, who had turned back to look at the stars again. From the side she could just make-out the silver glint in his eyes, reflecting the light of the stars and the moon in all their glory, shining bright against his black warpaint. His black hair also appeared to have a glowing silver sheen, though most of the light was absorbed, seeming to be passed on instead to his pale skin. 

Shaking her head, Frida pulled flint and steel from her pocket, striking the pieces smartly together until she was able to get a proper spark and start a fire. The orange flames climbed higher as they fed on the wood and fresh night air, popping and spluttering in a delightfully nostalgic way, reminding Frida of many nights spent by the hearth sitting in her father’s lap and listening to his rumbling voice tell glorious tales of adventure. It was a simpler time back then, but she rarely missed it, much preferring the freedom of her adult life, where she had the ability to do whatever she wanted, just because she could. Of course she couldn’t do everything she wanted, although she certainly tried, and tried very hard to. 

Vilkas came and sat opposite her. 

“So, we hit Gallows Rock next?” He asked. 

“You’re the Companion, you tell me.” Frida smirked. 

“We’ll hire some horses, then take off.” 

“From where?” 

“There’s plenty of farms that hire-out horses. I’ll try to call in some favours, but I’m sure I have enough coin.” 

“If you don’t, I certainly do.” 

Frida held up the sack of money tied to her belt, waving it a little. Vilkas grunted in acknowledgement. 

“Do you want to take watch, or me?” Frida asked. 

“Why don’t we both sleep tonight? I’m sure no one will find us, and we’ll have quite a way to walk tomorrow.” Vilkas reached over to his bag and pulled out two bed rolls, laying them on the ground. 

Frida laid her battleaxe on the ground, pulled her bedroll a little closer to the fire and climbed in, curling up with the furs tightly against her body. Vilkas was still shuffling around and making some last-minute arrangements for himself but he soon settled down for the night and fell silent, the only sign of life being his deep, even breathing. 

Frida woke to find Vilkas already awake and making breakfast. Groggily rubbing her eyes, she muttered a hoarse good-morning and stood up to stretch, pulling her arms back behind her head and sighing in satisfaction when her bones cracked, all the muscles around them seeming to pop into place, ready for another long day of use. 

On the first few days of this occurring Frida had asked Vilkas if he was alright, checking to make sure he’d gotten enough sleep. After learning how badly the Beast blood affected his rest Frida had learnt to stop asking and just go along with it, knowing she had to be sympathetic when he became snappy or angry. 

Breakfast was just some fried chicken eggs and bread. The pair ate their food quickly and got ready to head back into the open terrain again, packing away all their things and erasing all traces of themselves from the area, save for the piles of Silverhand bodies in almost every room. Originally, Frida had wanted to burn all the dead, but Vilkas said that would be too respectful and that they deserved to rot for all the crimes they had committed. It seemed a judgement out of Vilkas’ depth, and surely a decision fit only for the gods, but Frida went along with him, knowing that it was not her place as an outsider to the Companions to deem what practices of theirs were or were not justified. She had come along on this mission to help, after all, not control. 

The sun shone warm on Skyrim and Frida lifted her face to the sun, basking in its gifts. The grass looked sweet and green in the light, all the nightly frost melting into dew, eventually evaporating completely. Distant mooing came from behind the hills and Frida took it as a sign the cows and sheep had moved to graze in another spot, deeming the grass from last night not fit for further consumption. The air itself tasted fresh and sprang with a scent Frida couldn’t quite describe, but it reminded her of spring, full of birth and growth and love. Growth and love were one in the same, so of course she thought of both. 

They walked for several hours in silence, skirting their way around a few mammoths here and there, but mostly remaining completely undisturbed in their travels. Legs growing a little weary and mind growing a little bored, Frida was grateful at the sight of a farm, and even more delighted to see a few horses housed in large wooden stables. Vilkas led her inside the farm where a woman sat at a table counting produce. She spoke to Vilkas briefly and agreed to lend him two horses, satisfied with the money he gave her. 

Within a matter of minutes the horses were saddled-up and ready to ride, whinnying and stalling as they waited for their riders to climb onto their backs. Vilkas flicked the reins of his horse and Frida did the same, allowing Vilkas to guide her through the wilderness, heading straight for Gallows Rock, knowing there would be a huge group of Silver Hand living without the knowledge that they were being hunted. 

The thought brought a cruel but well-deserved smile to Frida’s face. Those bastards wouldn’t have a clue what to do when faced with a Companion and his warrior-friend, and that’s the way Frida preferred it. Sure, it seemed dishonourable, but anyone who was willing to murder and torture other beings deserved to be ambushed and slaughtered; it was a deed for the good of the world, really, they were doing everyone a service by ridding them of the Silver Hand scum. Frida smiled and shook her head, amused at how heavily influenced her thinking had become by the likes of Vilkas. It was strange to admit, but she’d taken a strong liking to the wolf-man over the past few days. He reminded her a little of her father, she supposed, with his deep, typical Nord accent, intelligent eyes and stern demeanor. An air of wisdom would hang around him when he was silent, and somehow managed to stay when he spoke as well, something Frida had noticed very few men could do, as the mouth was the quickest way to become a fool - yet another thing her parents had taught her as a child. 

In essence, Frida found Vilkas to be a very attractive man. She just didn’t know how to address it. 

“There it is.” Vilkas stopped his horse and pointed ahead. 

A broken, crumbled building of stone stood as a ruin among the wilderness, sticking out like a sore thumb. The walls were crawling with Silver Hands, armed to the teeth with bows and swords. 

WInking at Vilkas, Frida leapt from her horse and ran toward Gallows Rock, screaming at the top of her lungs. Despite the noise she created, the Silver Hands reacted slowly, taken aback by her bravery and fumbling with their weapons, swaying on their feet as if unable to decide a course of action. Frida brought her hammer down on the first few Sliver Hands, cracking their heads open and leaving them for dead. A few of them sprung into action after watching their comrades drop to the ground, lunging at Frida with their swords and daggers drawn. She was quick to block them, tilting her hammer this way and that deftly, smiling when one of Vilkas’ arrows went through their skull with a wet  _ thwack _ . An incredible shot, that man was, but still somehow even more gifted with a greatsword. 

No Silver Hands were left standing outside, so Frida took the opportunity to loot the bodies and hide her knapsack away, ready to grab it later when they’d cleared out the interior of the old military post. 

Frida and Farkas travelled between each room quietly, careful not to make too much noise as they killed the Silver Hand members. She didn’t  _ love  _ how slowly they were making progress, but Vilkas convinced her it was the best way to proceed due to Gallows Rock being densely populated with Silver Hands. 

The cell room was the worst one they had to clear. Frida bit her tongue when they entered, her blood boiling as she glared down the hallway to see it lined with cells, each containing a werewolf. Vilkas put a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed, before nodding and pointing at the closest Silver Hand. Frida took a deep breath, centring herself, then ran toward the man on light feet, not allowing him to register her presence before she brought her hammer down on his head, watching in satisfaction as his filthy blood splattered the floor. Vilkas killed the woman standing by the staircase further down the hall. 

“Kill any werewolves, let me know if there’s any people. I’ll be in the next room, but I’ll yell out if I need your help.” Vilkas said, creeping down the stairs. 

Frida pulled some lock picks from her pocket and got to work on the locks for the cells, mindful of whether or not the werewolves inside were awake. Most of them were already dead when she got inside, so she stroked their side and murmured a blessing, praying they met a peaceful end, despite the tortures they had been subjected to. 

The last cell was different to the rest, Frida noticed. She peered in curiously, then gasped when she saw a human figure. Every other time they’d raided Silver Hand camps, they’d only ever had werewolves imprisoned. Vilkas, of course, had always warned her of a person being trapped, though she’d never quite been able to believe it. 

“Hello?” Frida tapped on the iron bars of the cell door. 

It was a woman on the ground. She tilted her head up and met Frida’s gaze, then lulled forward again, too weak to support herself. 

“I’m here with the Companions. We’ve come to save you.” Frida told her. No response came, so Frida fumbled with her lockpicks and hastily took to the doors, twisting her arms as she tried to pick the lock. With one final  _ click _ the door opened and Frida hastily stepped forward, kneeling down beside the pale Imperial-looking woman, whose body barely moved as she breathed. 

“Is everything alright?” Frida could hear Vilkas ask from out in the hallway. 

“There’s a woman here and she’s very weak.” Frida called to him. 

Vilkas growled. “I thought I told you to come and get me if there was a person.” 

“I wasn’t thinking. She’s badly injured Vilkas, we have to help her.” 

“We need to clear the rest of this gods-forsaken place first.” 

“I’ll leave her some food and water then.” 

“Make sure you block the door. Wouldn’t want her escaping or Turning while we’re gone.” 

Frida put her water-skin on the floor at the woman’s feet, also leaving a bit of bread beside it. She blocked the cell behind her with a shovel and followed Vilkas down the stairs. 

The final room of Silver Hands was the easiest. Frida drew on her anger from seeing that poor woman and wielded it against her enemies, crushing them with no hesitation, slaying them with no mercy. They didn’t deserve it. She spat on their leader’s body in disgust at the end of the battle, placing one last firm kick in his belly and stalking off, unable to stand in the same room as all the Silver Hand vermin any more. Her feet landed heavily as she stomped up the stairs and over to the woman’s cell. 

The woman’s eyes fluttered open again, though now she seemed aware of her surroundings, her expression becoming fear-stricken at the sight of a stranger. 

Frida snapped out of her rage immediately, shaking her head and taking a deep breath. She told the woman her name and who she was, speaking in a kind, soft and crooning tone, hoping to coax the woman into eating, or at least understanding she was now among friends. 

“My name is Idelia,” the Imperil told her, “the Silver Hand, they tormented me and…” 

“I understand.” Frida murmured. She didn’t. She didn’t think she ever would, really. To torture another living thing, to take away its right to live… it was despicable. 

Idelia ate and drank what Frida gave her quickly, not even pausing to chew the bread. 

“There’s more food you can have outside.” Frida told her, offering the woman her hand and helping her stand up. Idelia leaned heavily against her and limped along, grunting softly with each step down the stairs, cursing when she landed particularly hard on her bad foot. 

Vilkas had looted all the bodies and was waiting for them outside. He didn’t say a word as Frida led Idelia away from Gallows Rock and into the wilderness, simply grabbing the horses and following along, keeping an eye out for any predators. 

Frida picked a spot to camp, lowering Idelia to the ground and instructing her to rest while herself and Vilkas finished setting everything up. They were quick and efficient in their work, gathering firewood and laying out bedrolls, food and drink for the night, circling around each other to finish jobs like a well-oiled machine, or perhaps similar to a dance. Frida sparked a roaring fire and sat beside it to cook dinner, amazed yet again at how long they had been fighting the Silver Hand. 

As they ate, Idelia told her saviours of her home and how she’d come upon the Silver Hand. 

“Your husband was a werewolf?” Vilkas asked. 

“Yes, that’s why they were hunting us. He died a few days after we were captured. I… wasn’t so lucky.” Idelia explained. 

Frida leaned over and gave her knee a reassuring pat. “Your home is near here. I’m sure we could make a detour and take you back.” 

“We’ll have to.” Vilkas said. 

“Not that it’s a bother. We’ve all the time in the world, with how quickly we’re killing these Silver Hands!” Frida jumped in, making sure Idelia knew she was welcome. 

Vilkas grunted. 

“I thank you both. My home really isn’t too far, I can leave by myself in the morning. Thank you so much for saving me, I… I can’t thank you enough, really.” Idelia said. 

“You don’t have to thank us, we’re doing our job.” Frida smiled at her warmly. “You’re too injured to travel by yourself, I’m more than happy to take you home tomorrow. Speaking of injuries, let me have a look at your leg. I’m no mage, but I know a few healing spells.” 

Idelia’s leg was fine after a little magic. She told Frida it felt a little tender, but that was normal after such an injury was healed by a novice like Frida. Vilkas offered to take watch as Idelia settled in for the night, but Frida told him she wasn’t tired yet, moving to sit beside him and give their guest some space. 

“My apologies for getting angry before.” Frida murmured to Vilkas once Idelia had fallen asleep. 

Vilkas shrugged. “No, I admire it. The way you use your anger, I mean. Many people don’t know how to fight when they’re angry. You utilise it, and it’s incredible to watch.” 

“My mother told me that anyone who lets themselves be consumed by anger is a fool, but anyone who uses it to their advantage is wise well-beyond their years. In light of that lesson, my father taught me how to fight no matter how I was feeling, and that to fight with feeling was to fight with honour.” 

“Your parents are wise.” 

“Yes, well, they don’t have people all over Skyrim coming to them for advice for no reason.” 

“So you’re famous, then?” 

“Yes and no. My father is famous among warriors, my mother is famous among women. It is strange, really: much of the respect for my mother comes from her dealing with my father, not from her teachings. My mother is a very clever woman, but not many men know it.” 

“And I can see she raised her daughter to take after her, yes?” 

“I suppose. That would involve much more pilgrimage, however, so I’d rather take my father’s path of glory and honour.” 

“I must say, I wish I could say such noble things. I fight for coin, really, and that’s all.” 

“My mother did that in her younger years. It wasn’t that she didn’t have honour, of course, but she wasn’t interested in the way battling made her  _ feel _ . She fought for coin and that was that. There is still merit to that, however.” 

“Oh? Impart your wisdom upon me, Lady Frida.” 

“Well, you could use your combat skills to become a bandit, couldn’t you? You could creep up on travellers and slit their throats as they slept, stealing their money in the night. You could smuggle illegal goods across Skyrim, earn money that way. You could do so many things, and yet you choose to stay with the Companions and aid your brothers and sisters across Skyrim, honouring them in exchange for a few septims.” 

“I suppose so, when you look at it that way.” 

Frida yawned, resting her head on Vilkas’ shoulder lazily. She almost jumped when she felt his arm come to rest gently against her back. 

The stars twinkled down from above, glowing merrily against the dark sky. Frida could feel the flames of the fire dying down, but she couldn’t be bothered fixing it, much too comfortable sitting with Vilkas, whose beautiful silver eyes were glowing in the moonlight again. 

Vilkas looked over at Frida and gave her a small smile. Grinning back, she leaned in and kissed his cheek impulsively, her cheeks flushing a bright red as she pulled away. Vilkas lifted his hand and caught her chin with his thumb, turning her head back to him and pressing his lips to hers, his hand finding its way to her cheek and cupping it, fingers drifting through her hair and resting beside her ear in a soft caress. Her own hand found its way to his stomach, pressing gently as she shifted her body to face him better, kissing him deeply. 

Leaning back slowly, Vilkas pulled Frida down on top of him, his back pressed against the dirt and grass while she straddled his stomach, bringing both her hands up to hold his face as she kissed him. His own hands drifted further down, coming to settle against the curve of her hips, thumbs grazing her sides. 

“We finish this at an inn sometime, hm?” Vilkas said, pulling away. 

Frida was still grinning. “You can’t be a Beast if we do that.” 

“I’d hurt you if I was the Beast.” 

“I don’t think I’d mind.” 

Vilkas shook his head and chuckled. 

“You have a beautiful laugh.” Frida smiled with wonder, caressing his face and trying to take it all in, as if him smiling would become a vital memory for her to look back on someday. “You should do it more often.” 

“Maybe you should make better jokes then.” 

“Oh, come off it. I don’t see  _ you _ cracking jokes.” 

“That’s because, unlike you, I’m aware of the fact that I’m not funny.” 

“That’s because you spend too much of your time being a moody bastard.” 

“I don’t think I can smile again, now that you’ve said such horrible things.” 

“What if I kiss you?” 

“I suppose that might make me a little happier.” 

Frida leaned down again and kissed him, pressing her whole body down against his, entangling her hands in his hair and feeling it slip through her fingertips. His arms wrapped themselves tightly around her waist and pulled her in closer, trapping warmth between them and holding it hostage as they became ever-closer, almost melting into the same person, it seemed. 

Pulling away, Frida took a deep breath and slid off Vilkas slightly, her side resting on the ground with the rest of her body draped over the top of Vilkas, still wrapped loosely around him, hand resting on his cheek. 

"You should sleep." Vilkas muttered. 

"Probably." Frida said. 

She put her head on Vilkas' shoulder and closed her eyes. 

"If someone attacks, I'm going to have to throw you off." Vilkas said. 

"Oh well." Frida relaxed against him even more. 

It wasn't long before she fell asleep, and stayed that way until the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Frida and Vilkas will be popping up in the future (though this might be a minor spoiler for that, whoopsie)! 
> 
> Feel free to request stuff in the future, I had a lot of fun with this one. Please don't feel put-off if you think that due to my past writing I may not want to write your request, I'm actually planing on changing some things up, maybe even writing in a similar style to the in-game books. 
> 
> And, yes, I'm well-aware of my probable reputation as someone who only writes about men but it's just because women low-key scare the hell out of me, even if I am one. So yeah, I'm going to try and ~expand my horizons~ but, let's be real, I'm gonna keep writing most of my stuff about dudes. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Not So Alone (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, you all get to meet my Dragonborn! 
> 
> Onmund x Nord Male Dragonborn

"Will he be alright?" I frown, peering down at the large man lying in the infirmary bed. 

"Yes, of course. He'll just need to sleep his injuries off, he'll heal up just fine." Colette smiles at me. "He's very lucky you brought him in when you did though, otherwise he would've gotten hypothermia." 

"Right." I nod. 

"Let him be for now. He'll wake up soon." Colette squeezes my shoulder reassuringly and takes off down the hall, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone floors. 

I don't follow her instructions, grabbing a book from a table nearby. It’s a text on transfiguration magic, something I’ve never been particularly good at, but I always strive to do my best in all fields of magic. I have to show my family this is my true calling. 

The text is rather boring, which is part of the reason why I’m so bad at transfiguration. I just can't seem to concentrate and most of the technical terms fly well over my head, rendering me completely incapable of understanding what I’m reading. Sighing, I flick through the pages and hunt for diagrams. Hopefully they’ll prove more useful to me than all these stupid words. 

The diagrams are a little better and explain the process of turning a sapling into a fully-grown plant. Apparently, it’s the most common form of transfiguration magic in Skyrim, which is kind of confusing. Of course, I understand the practicality of it all, but wouldn't it be much more fun to turn into another animal? I suppose it doesn't matter, since I’ll never reach that level of skill in transfiguration. 

I put the book back down and decide to test my knowledge on transfiguration by recalling each step. I’ve only gotten to the second part when the injured man in front of me stirs a little, his lip curling in pain. 

On instinct, I reach out and touch his (rather broad) chest, willing for healing warmth to spread to my fingers and seep into his skin. After a few seconds, his eyes flutter open, revealing an odd but beautiful orange colour. 

"Oh." The stranger's gaze darts around the room, before he smiles at me awkwardly. "Hello." 

I freeze, realising how weird this must be to wake up to. "Hello." 

"You uh… well." The man chuckles and blushes. "At least take me to dinner first." 

"Oh, oh, sorry." I can feel my face burning and I snatch my hand away. 

"No, I'm sorry, that was supposed to be a joke that made you more comfortable with the situation, but it didn't and now I feel really bad. Sorry, I honestly didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." The man says bashfully. "My name is Sewen, by the way, if that makes this a little less awkward. You know, since now you sort of know me and I'm not just some complete stranger lying half-naked in front of you." 

That doesn't make it any better, but I don't want to make this poor man feel even worse. "I'm Onmund." 

"Now, before you ask: the blue hair is completely natural, my father's got river spirit blood, and all of them have blue hair, so it's completely normal." Sewen says cheerfully. 

I shake my head, shocked as to how I didn't even notice the hair before. "I've never heard of a river spirit before in my life." 

"Well, I know I sound mad, but I promise you they're real. They're just a tad… reclusive, don't like strangers too much. Unless you go looking for them, otherwise there's no real way to come across them, I guess. Unless you're drowning. There's plenty of stories about men escaping water miraculously and all that's done by the spirits. They're a friendly bunch, really, you've just gotta be nice and whatnot." Sewen waves his arms around as he speaks, which is plain adorable, despite how big he is. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, it's alright. Good to see you in such high spirits, especially after the state I found you in." 

"I'm really sorry about that. Honestly, I don't even know what came over me! One minute, I've slain a bloody frost troll and the next the snow gives out underneath me and I'm falling off a cliff! Not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I suppose, but it certainly gave me a fright." 

"You breaking both of your legs, dislocating your shoulder and getting a sword through the side isn't the worst that's ever happened to you?" 

"Not when I had you to heal me up! There was this one time where I was exploring some old fortress, and right as I was climbing up the stairs, they crumbled away as I stepped on them! I fell down backwards, hit my head a few times and broke a couple bones. I was lying in absolute agony for a while, trying to get the strength to cast a healing spell, which was sort of ironic because I needed the spell to heal but I needed to heal to cast the spell, anyway, I was trying to cast it when I noticed this healing potion sitting  _ just  _ out of reach. So, I ended up crawling over to it - with a broken arm and dislocated shoulder, mind you - and I grabbed the potion and drank it all! Took a few hours, but soon I was feeling much better and I staggered back on home, probably looking like a dog's breakfast." 

"Really?" 

"I don't mean to seem like I'm showing off, sorry! But yes, all of it really happened. I'm always off getting myself hurt, one way or another, and I've gotten used to it a bit by now. That's why I wear all that heavy armour, 'cause it protects me from my 'clumsy' damage. Say, you're a healer, right? You should come on one of my adventures with me. I'm sure we'd have tonnes of fun, and there's a lot of money in it too, if you're interested in that kind of thing." 

"Oh, I know a bit about Restoration magic. Enough to heal a few cuts and such, I'm sure." 

"I have a feeling you're much better at healing than you're letting on. Sorry, I usually don't talk this much, I'm quite shy, but you just have a very understanding face, you know? You understand? Sorry, bad joke, forgive me." 

"No, you're quite funny, actually. I think you'd be the first person to ever call a Nord understanding." 

"We all have our prejudices, I suppose. I must admit, I find Altmer people very intimidating. They're just so… I don't know! I usually tell people I'm a Nord, if that's any comfort to you. It's much easier than explaining the whole 'river spirit' thing, anyway." 

"I bet it is."

"I'm really sorry about all this. I keep rambling, but you really do have an understanding face!" 

"Thank you, I guess?" 

"This is quite possibly the worst way to be introduced to someone. I'm really sorry, again. I meant to just come to the College and settle in, but then that frost troll came and ugh, it was just being a damn nuisance so I had to kill the bloody thing, even though I usually just avoid them, for obvious reasons, they're a very nasty bunch, but this one just kept chasing me!" 

"Yeah, they don't like people very much." 

"I mean, I suppose it's no wonder, since a lot of people aren't very nice and whatnot." 

"Especially Nords, apparently." 

Sewen doesn't say anything in response. He looks rather lost in thought for a moment, before snapping back to reality with a smile. 

"Anyway! I feel alright now. Am I supposed to? I don't feel sore or anything anymore. Maybe just run me over with your magic quickly so we can make sure." 

I nod and reach out again. As I grab Sewen's arm, I can feel my face growing hot again, but I bite my tongue and focus on finding any injuries. Suddenly, it's as if I have hundreds of hands and eyes, all scanning over Sewen's body at a rapid rate. Sewen shivers violently and I almost get distracted, but I remind myself that shivering is perfectly normal during this kind of magical process, continuing to check for any harm. Nothing seems particularly alarming, so I open my eyes slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose when the dizziness hits. Coming back to reality is always hard after performing restoration magic, since you're basically placing yourself inside the mind of another person. Hence why Collette's always so upset when people dismiss restoration, since it's actually incredibly complicated and stuffy to do, especially when healing another person. 

"Everything alright?" Sewen asks brightly. 

"Yes, perfectly fine. Colette is quite the healer. I'll introduce you later." I say. 

"Oh. You didn't heal me?" 

"No. Well, I sort of did. Then I brought you in here so you could be healed properly by the professor." 

"I'm such a fool! Sorry, I must have been making you uncomfortable. Oh, I should've just waited for her to come back rather than making you do that. My apologies." 

"It's fine. I could always use the practice." 

"Well, if you're a student… maybe you could take me on a grand tour? I don't really know anything about this place, if I'm being honest." 

"Mirabelle usually does the tours, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind me giving you one." 

Sewen climbs out of the bed, revealing his nakedness fully, dressed only in undergarments. 

"This is like that time I got drunk and woke up in the Temple of Dibella completely naked." Sewen laughs. 

"What?" I ask. Of course a guy like him would charm the ladies at the Temple of Dibella. 

"Oh, I had a few drinks with a god in Whiterun, then ended up going on a drunken adventure around Skyrim. I woke up the next day in Markarth, naked and apparently about to get married. Turns out I'd promised to marry a Hagraven.” 

“What happened?” 

“Obviously I couldn’t marry her, but she was pretty obsessed with me and so when I tried to talk her out of it, she ended up attacking me, so… I killed her.” 

“Wow.” 

“Yeah, it was a weird time in my life. I'll admit, I didn't touch ale for a few months after that. I just felt terrible about what I'd done. Couldn't sleep at night either, for a while. I was just so  _ depressed  _ all the time, I didn't want to do anything.” 

I'm silent, unsure of what to say. This guy is telling me way too much about himself. 

"But I'm over it! Everything's fine now. By the Divines, you must have me charmed, or something! I don't think I've told anyone this much about myself. I don't usually make that many friends, since I'm travelling so much… There I go again! Sorry." 

"It's alright, I won't tell anyone. I’ll get you some clothes, then we can go on our tour.” 

I get out of the room as quickly as possible, feeling hot and flustered. The image of Sewen’s muscular body has been burnt into my memory and I try to ignore it, attempting to shake off the heat spreading through me, hoping it'll do something. It doesn't, just making me feel even more stressed. 

I leave the Hall of Attainment, breathing in the fresh, cold air and allowing it to wash over me as I think of where to get clothes. Colette had put his armour in some special staff-area of the College, so I won’t be able to get all that back without asking for permission from the Arch-mage, a thought that makes me feel nauseous. 

An idea comes to me, though I don’t like it too much. Surely my own clothes would be too small for Sewen, since he is.... well... very large. Way bigger than me, anyway. It'll have to do, I suppose. 

I quickly jog back to my room and rummage through my wardrobes, trying to find my biggest clothes. A reasonably nice tunic is hanging, so I grab it and take off again, rushing through the halls. 

Sewen is sitting on the bed when I come in, staring blankly at the wall. A big grin comes to his face when he sees the tunic I’m holding and he waves off all my apologies about it being small, saying it’s better than nothing and that he’s very grateful I grabbed it. 

He slips it on and I almost laugh. The tunic  _ just  _ fits him, hugging his body much too tightly and riding up a little high against his thighs. He tugs it down as much as possible, but his actions are in vain, since everything comes up again when he stands straight. Sighing, Sewen steps past me and out of the infirmary. For the sake of his attractiveness, I’m kind of content with how exposed he is, in a weird, perverted way, but at the same time I feel horrible and like I should be looking away, begging the gods to forgive me for my sinful thoughts. 

“Alright, take me on the tour.” Sewen says, sweeping his arm around the College grandly. 

I beckon for him to follow me. The living areas come first, I’ve decided, since they’re the closest. Sewen seems impressed with everything as we look, shyly asking if he can grab an apple when we pass one of the dining alcoves. As he crunches on it, I give him a brief history of the College, explaining its founding and teachers and whatnot. 

We go to the Hall of Elements next, where I show Sewen the lecture rooms and the library, though his eyes seem a little glazed and misty at the sight of all the books, so I usher him out quickly before Urag notices us. I show Sewen the little laboratory stations set up for alchemy and enchanting, which he seems rather interested in, picking up a Soul Gem and gazing into it, as if mystified by its swirling contents. 

“Where are all the people?” Sewen asks as I lead him back to the Hall of Attainment, where I’m fairly sure his room is. 

“Back home with their families. It’s the holiday season right now, they won’t be back for a few weeks at least.” I say. 

“Damn, I always mess-up my timing. Should’ve gone to see my parents. Oh well, I suppose I could pop out for a few days next week, if there’s still a while until everyone comes back.” Sewen murmurs. 

I can’t help it when a little ‘oh’ slips from me. 

“Is something wrong?” Sewen asks. 

“No, I just… it’s nothing.” I say. I just thought maybe your family hated you too, is all. Nothing big. 

“I won’t ask. But, if you want, you can go with me. My parents would love to meet one of my friends.” 

“I couldn’t ask that of you.” 

“Sure you could! Unless, of course, you don’t consider me your friend, which is perfectly understandable. I’d be happy to have you around, really.” 

“We’re friends.” 

“I’m glad. Sorry, I’m just… are you interested in men? Sorry, I’m just wondering.” 

“Uh, yes, I am.” 

“Right. I didn’t mean to ask, I know it’s personal but I couldn’t help myself, sorry. You’re just… very nice, and I like you, so I didn’t want to risk flirting with you and then have you tell me you’re not even interested in men. It’s fine if you’re not interested in  _ me _ , though, I understand!” 

I nod, unsure of what to say. 

“Do you know which room is mine?” 

“Oh, this one here.” I point to a room by the door. I’m assuming it’s free, since I’ve never seen anyone in there. I push the door open, sighing in relief at the sight of empty shelves. 

Sewen steps into the room beside me and suddenly the space feels much smaller. He opens one of the cupboards, probably just getting an idea of storage, scanning the rest of the room with a grin. 

“This place is nice.” He falls back onto the bed, wincing when it creaks beneath his weight. 

“Don’t worry, my bed does that too.” I say. 

“That’s supposed to be a reassurance? You’d be way lighter than me!” Sewen chuckles. 

“You’d be surprised.” 

“No, you’d weigh nothing. I’ve carried warhammers heavier than you!” 

“I’m  _ sure _ you have.” 

“What, you think I killed that troll with some flimsy little blade?” 

“Maybe. You’re strong enough.” 

“I’ll have to try it sometime. Preferably when you’re there, because then you can heal me when I inevitably almost get myself killed.” 

“You really think I’m a master healer, huh?” 

“I think you’re a modest person who tends to sell himself short.” 

“So you came here to further hone your magic of mind-reading?” 

“No, I read a book for that. I came here to learn about the other types of magic. Don’t even know if I can do half of it, but oh well, I’ve got nothing to lose by being here. Who knows, maybe someone will come along and attack the College, and the only person who can save the place is me!” 

“You shouldn’t joke about those kinds of things.” 

“The gods do love me, so I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them has already sent an army of trolls by now.” 

“Fantastic. I’m gonna hit the town for a drink and come back when you need healing.” 

Sewen laughs, standing up again. He walks out of the room, stops, then walks back in with a bashful grin. 

“A quick question… where are my things?” 

“Well uh, Colette took your armour and… I didn’t actually… manage… to, uh… grab your stuff… when I brought you here.” 

Sewen’s face falls, but he replaces it with a hasty smile. 

“It’s okay! I can grab it all tomorrow! Don’t feel bad, or anything, there’s nothing important in there. You left my weapons there too, I presume?” 

“Yes. You were already too heavy, I couldn’t grab everything else. I’m really sorry.” 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong! I just realised, I don’t think I thanked you for bringing me back! Oh gods. I’m sorry. Thank you for saving my life. I suppose I owe you now, eh? You need anything done, let me know. And I say that as your friend, too. You could still ask me for a favour, even if I didn’t owe you my life.” 

“I’ll come with you tomorrow and help you.” 

“Thank you, I-” 

“Sewen Milywen?” Mirabelle appears at the doorway, holding her hand out to Sewen. 

“Oh! Hello! Yes, that’s me.” Sewen takes her hand and shakes it firmly. 

“I’m Professor Mirabelle. I was supposed to give you a tour, but it appears Onmund here has already acquainted you with the College.” Mirabelle looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. 

“Yes, he has. It’s beautiful, by the way.” Sewen tells her. 

Mirabelle begins speaking to him about administration-related things, so I take it as a chance to dismiss myself and walk upstairs to a dining alcove. I grab a plate, sit down and clap my hands, watching as a venison chop and vegetables form themselves on my plate. 

It’s lonely eating by myself. The emptiness of the Hall reminds me of home, where I’m sure the rest of my family would be gathering around the table to eat dinner, not even worried (or maybe even glad) about the lack of one other person. The person who chose to go off to the College of Winterhold and waste his life away mastering magic. Every mouthful of food is tasteless, even though I know it’s all perfectly made. 

The bench creaks loudly when Sewen sits beside me. He hesitantly grabs his plate and claps, gasping when stew appears, spilling over the edges and onto the table. I jokingly tell him he might want to grab a cloth and clean up, to which he jumps up and asks where to find one. I wave my hand and the mess disappears. 

Chuckling and rubbing his neck, Sewen sits beside me again, although this time he grabs a bowl. Stew materialises again and this time it’s properly contained. Sewen eats it in silence, which is a little weird, but I don’t strike up a conversation, given that I barely know him and certainly don’t want to disturb him. I get up and grab a few bottles of ale, popping one open for myself and gulping it down. 

Sewen hesitantly grabs a drink. 

Soon, we’re drunk in silence, lounging about at the table. I stand up and trip a little, but manage to steady myself, then stumble over to the stairs and practically creep down at a snail's pace, hands pressed hard against the wall. I can hear Sewen behind me doing the same. 

I slur a goodnight to him and he grunts back. We go into our rooms and I promptly throw myself down on the bed (ignoring the creaking) and fall asleep, only waking up when the sun decides to stream into my room and pierce my vision, highlighting my headache and overwhelming need for rest. 

\---

We did end up grabbing Sewen’s stuff from where I found him. Everything was there, unsurprisingly, since it’s not like any bandits are going to travel through blizzards for the sole purpose of finding a dead person’s loot. After that we went back to town and Sewen paid for a round of drinks, then had me tag along as he sold all his valuables, bartering and arguing for the best price, although in the end he slipped each merchant something for free, like a gold necklace or an enchanted dagger. 

Over the last few days, I've noticed more and more just how foreign this man is. The rich, dark blue hair was obviously a dead give-away, but the purple eyes and tanned skin were completely unbefitting of a Nord, unbefitting of  _ anyone _ living in Skyrim. Come to think of it, I don't think his eyes  _ are _ purple. They seem to change every time I look at him, but I shake it off because that would be impossible. I also can't get over just how big he is. I've never really been one to notice physical appearances of people, but he's just  _ massive _ , built like an Orc, or maybe even larger. It makes me curious as to what his parents look like. 

Speaking of parents, it's been a week and Sewen still hasn't followed through with his plans of leaving. It's as if he's desperately trying to become my best friend before he goes off, which is kind of sweet, but also really strange. I don't think anyone's ever given me this much attention before. Maybe it's because there's no one else here… once everyone comes back he'll probably take up the company of the other students. For now though, I'll enjoy being with him. 

We're eating dinner when Sewen finally brings his parents up. 

"I'm going to leave for Riverwood tomorrow." He says. 

"Your parents are from Riverwood?" I ask. 

"They own land near there, yes." 

"I… don't know why that's so surprising to me." 

"Yeah, they have a few farms here and there. Riverwood's the nicest one though. It has the most beautiful views of the sunsets, and the aurora there is like nothing else! Plus there's a few spare rooms there so workers can stay." 

"Your parents sound like good people." 

"They are." 

We’re silent for a minute, then Sewen starts speaking again. 

“Do you wanna come with me to Riverwood?” 

“I couldn’t ask that.” 

“You could. I want you to come with me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, of course! You’ve been a really good friend to me these past couple of days and I really enjoy talking to you, even if I feel bad because I feel like I don’t let you talk enough.” 

“I don’t really have anything interesting to say. I like listening to your stories.” 

“Well then come on some adventures with me! There’s always room for one more. I mean, it does get lonely, travelling by myself all the time. I wish I had someone with me, to be honest.” 

“You’re sure your parents wouldn’t mind?” 

“Yep.” 

"I s'pose I have no reason to say no, huh? Not like I've got anywhere better to be." 

"You could adventure by yourself, get drunk in a tavern with a beautiful man that you know you'll never see again, make some trouble with the gods, you know, normal, adventure-y things." 

"Now you're really overselling my magical capabilities." 

"That fire stuff you're teaching me is pretty intense." 

"That's novice destruction magic." 

"Well, I suppose you're very high above being a novice then, if you can do it so well!" 

"I'm adept in destruction, hoping to get to expert by next semester." 

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds very good." 

I sigh and chuckle at him. By the Divines, he can be very charming when he wants. I keep reminding myself he'd never want to court someone like me, but another part of me falls a little further for him every time he smiles at me, which unfortunately is very often, because he's a very happy person. 

Over the last week I've been teaching him some novice spells in destruction. Like me, he struggles a little with reading the spell tomes and prefers trying to trick me into having a conversation, but he managed to read a few things and then practice with me. He's… okay at casting. Certainly not the worst effort I've seen from a novice, but definitely not the best either. It's gotten me thinking that perhaps fire isn't his strong-suit and that we should be trying ice spells instead, although I'm not sure. I'm not even an expert yet, let alone a master who could properly tutor a student in magic. No, I can’t judge his magical ability. I’ll see what he’s like when the next semester starts in three weeks, I suppose. 

I left him and went to bed shortly after our conversation regarding his parents. The thought of meeting them makes my stomach do a violent flip, so I try to push away any notions regarding tomorrow and focus instead on the things around me. There's the woolly sheepskin rug on the floor, the creaky bed, the pale blue lamp in the corner with a comfortable armchair underneath, the soul gems on the shelves. This has become my home. 

I don't know what I'll do with myself once I graduate here, since I won't have a family to return to, or any money to buy a house. The thought of Sewen and travelling comes to mind and I have to convince myself that it's because he mentioned money. Apparently I'm not very convincing, because I still believe I'm in love with him. 

It takes a while to get to sleep. 

Knocking sounds at my door and I wake with a start, eyes snapping open. I pull on a tunic and answer the door to see Sewen standing outside, smiling sheepishly and rubbing his arm. He says something about leaving as soon as I'm ready. I nod along, wondering what to pack. 

I quickly throw some things into a knapsack: clothes, shoes, spell tomes, scrolls, healing and magicka potions. Everything I assume a normal adventurer would pack. Sewen is sitting upstairs, waiting for me with an empty plate in front of him. I sit beside him and he claps, digging into breakfast. 

"I didn't keep you here too long, did I?" I ask. 

"No, no, you're alright. You've packed, yeah?" He waves me off with a grin. 

"I think so." 

"As long as you grabbed some clothes, you'll be fine. I've organised a carriage, so we shouldn't come across anything too dangerous, but even then, you're perfectly safe with me. I promise." 

I nod. 

Sewen grabs my arm. "I'm serious. I know I told you stories about me getting injured a lot, but that all happened years ago. I've learnt how to deal with issues and not get myself killed. I guess I didn't really show that when I fell off that cliff, but I promise, that's the first time I've been injured in ages." 

"I believe you, I'm just… nervous, I guess. I haven't travelled around Skyrim before." 

"I'm gonna be your first time, huh?" 

"Oh, uh. Yeah." 

"I'm kidding! I get it. I remember the first time I went out with my fa and I was so scared,  _ all  _ the time. Every person we came across, I wanted to run away, even if they were friendly." 

"Yeah." 

"Eat up. I tried to pack good food, but there's a chance we'll be delayed a few days 'cause of blizzards, then we won't have very good food to eat. Just salted fish and stuff." 

"Salted fish is nice." 

"Not really my scene, but there's plenty of it if needed." 

"It's an acquired taste, I suppose." 

"Sure, or you're just one in a million." 

Sewen looks at me with a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, like he's thinking about something else and not really focused. Shaking his head, he snaps out of his daze and finishes his breakfast. I think to ask if he's feeling alright, though that may be a little personal. Who would want to get close with me anyway? 

I finish eating as well, then Sewen's jumping up from his seat and grabbing my hand, pulling me up to stand and dragging me down the stairs. 

We grab our bags and leave the College. Sewen tosses our things into the back of a carriage that has apparently been waiting for us, chatting merrily with the driver and discussing where we'd like to go and the safest route there. 

Turning to me, Sewen smirks. "I'll get up first, eh?" 

I frown, trying to understand what he means. Looking at the carriage, it finally dawns on me: it's suspended ridiculously high from the ground and I'll struggle to climb up. Nodding to Sewen, I step back and let him stretch a leg up and lift himself, holding my hand out for him to grab and then pull me up beside him. It seems effortless when he does it, as if I'm a sack of apples rather than a full-grown man. 

Sewen has placed all the bags on the other side of the carriage, taking up the entire bench, so I sit beside him. Of course, Sewen is rather big, but I could swear that this carriage is much smaller than most of the others I've seen trundling around Winterhold, because my left shoulder is brushing against Sewen's despite my right shoulder being leant against the wall of the carriage. 

"Probably should've gotten a bigger one." Sewen smiles sheepishly. "It's a carriage for two, but I sort of count for one-and-a-half, don't I?" 

"It's alright." I say, not wanting him to feel bad. He doesn't smile when he feels bad. 

Sewen lifts his arm up and lays it on top of the carriage wall behind me, his arm practically curling around the other wall as well. I chuckle nervously to myself and lean forward a little in hopes of making him feel more comfortable, given that now his arm won't be able to accidentally knock me. Not that I would be  _ unhappy  _ if it did. No, I shouldn't take advantage of him being nice to me. Gods know he'd stop if he finds out about my little infatuation with him. 

After an hour of quiet conversation, Sewen props his legs onto the bench opposite and stretches. By Talos, his legs are long. He rests both of his arms in his lap, meaning I can lean back against the wall without worry of us touching. 

Suddenly, Sewen gasps. "Merrick!" 

The driver turned to look at him. "Yes?" 

"Can you stop at this cave here? I'll pay you fifty extra, and we'll only be gone an hour." Sewen asks. 

"And if bandits come?" Merrick raises an eyebrow. 

"I'll conjure my familiars, they'll protect you." Sewen reaches over to his bag and slides out a staff. "You can conjure your own, if you like. It's fully charged." 

Merrick nods and takes the staff. "An extra fifty for every hour you keep me waiting. You're not my only customer, you know, and Riverwood's a little out of the way." 

"Fifty for the first hour, twenty-five after that. I'll buy you a round of Black-briar mead for every hour as well when we get to the Sleeping Giant." Sewen says. 

"Alright. Get out, go on." Merrick waves Sewen off. 

"Come on, we're having an adventure." Sewen grabs my hand and pulls me up, before getting a large battleaxe from his bags and jumping out of the carriage, jogging over to the entrance of the cave excitedly. 

I follow a little more warily. "We're just… gonna go in there? Do you know what's in there?" 

"Oh, actually, wait a second!" Sewen drops his battleaxe and runs back to the carriage, leaping up, rummaging through his bags again and pulling out a pickaxe. He runs back and picks up the battleaxe, hefting it over his shoulder and grinning at me. "Might be some ore in there." 

"Do you know what's in there?" I ask. 

"I've absolutely no idea! That's what makes it exciting." 

"That's what makes it dangerous." 

"Same thing, really. Come on, let's go." 

Sewen steps into the cave and drops into a crouch, creeping along quietly. I follow his lead, tracing his footsteps exactly, since I've heard horror stories of spiked walls and spears coming from the floor after stepping onto a pressure plate. Sewen stops suddenly and lays the pickaxe carefully on the ground. 

He turns to me and whispers. "You think you can blast them with your magic?" 

"Blast who?" I whisper back, trying to peek around him. 

"Two bandits. Just scouts, by the looks, since they don't have much armour on. Perfect for a little magic." Pressing his back to the wall, Sewen lets me look into a little room. 

He's right. Two human bandits are standing beside a fire with their hands out, probably in a futile attempt to get warm. The fire, of course, isn't large enough for that, since this cave isn't ventilated well-enough for a proper fire to breath and smoke. Swords are sheathed in their belts, blades glinting in the light of the flames and their limited armour is made of fur, pretty much ideal for some fire magic. 

This will be my first time killing another person. I take a slow breath through my nose and remind myself of what bandits do to innocent people, the way they ransack homes and steal and plunder. They deserve this. Stepping quietly into the room and raising my hands, I call on the damp air around me and summon the magicka from it, willing my fingers to spark up and burn, large balls of fire forming in my palm, firing off when I thrust my hands. 

One of them is hit in the head and collapses to the ground, dying instantly. The other, however, I miss, so they draw their sword with a shout and charge at me. Not knowing what to do, I freeze, my body becoming tense and my nerves jumping. Ice spikes form against my skin, protruding and impaling the bandit in the gut, stopping them short as their sword falls from their hand onto the ground, breath gargling as they choke on blood. They cough out their last breath and I feel liquid hit my face, but I don't know if it's spit, blood, or both. 

Sewen charges past me over to the other door and stands beside it, battleaxe held at the ready and in hiding. I watch, completely frozen, as a bandit comes running through the door and seems shocked to see me, freezing and not quite sure how to approach me. As he calculates his next action, Sewen interrupts him, stepping forward and swiftly bringing his axe down into the man's skull, killing him, before gracefully removing the axe and standing back in his hiding position. Another bandit comes and Sewen repeats the process, over and over until there are five bodies lying in front of him. Forcing himself to breathe quietly despite his heaving shoulders, Sewn listens carefully for the sound of more footsteps. After a minute he relaxes and walks over to me. 

“It’s alright.” He puts an arm out to touch my shoulder, not even worrying about the ice spikes. 

I focus on my breathing and calm myself, concentrating on the feeling of Sewen’s warm hand resting on my shoulder. The ice melts back into my skin. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Sewen cups my face in his large hand and caresses my chin with his thumb. “We have to keep moving, but I’ll protect you. You can trust me.” 

He hefts his battle axe onto his shoulder again and grabs his pickaxe from before, ushering me through the door with soft words and a gentle nudge. I walk along in front of him in a daze, not really aware of where we’re going, but knowing when I have to turn a corner or dodge a large rock. 

I snap out of my daze when my foot lands on something, then drops with a click. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit! Me, updating within six days? Unheard of! 
> 
> Probably should have waited another day, but I've had it sitting for two days already and I was really excited to post it so I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Just as a quick side-note, I've been getting some comments and stuff, and I gotta say, seeing the notification pop up makes me so happy! I know it sounds dorky, but yeah, I love talking to people, so feel free to comment.


	10. The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like guards don't get enough love, so here's a pair of Redguards that have very Brokeback Mountain-y vibes.

Kor’a’zam had a watch shift on the eastern wall of Dragonsreach each day. He did it with Kural, who was a Redguard like himself. It was strange to work with a Redguard, he thought. The rest of the Guard was made up of Nords and it was by some dumb luck he was partnered with the only other foreigner, although he didn’t believe in the whole ‘be friends with only your race’ thing and didn’t care much for the race of the other man. 

What he did care about, however, was that Kural liked men and that he liked men of all races. He also cared about the fact that Kural had a good sense of humour and an easy-going nature, despite constantly getting in trouble for it and often being subjected to some form of punishment like patrolling the jail or standing outside the Jarl’s bedroom. Tedious punishment for the only man who wasn’t tedious in the whole damn city. Sometimes Kor’a’zam would visit him during a shift and tease him for his predicament, but he liked to think he was actually doing the man a favour by keeping him company. 

Kural wasn’t being punished today, a rarity. Hands on his hips, he looked at Kor’a’zam with a raised eyebrow and a smirk when he arrived late. 

“I fought off a whole raid of bandits by myself before you got here.” Kural sighed theatrically. 

Kor’a’zam leant over the wall and scanned the rocky ground below. “Certainly looks it.” 

“They were just quick to clean.” Kural waved him off with a grin, playing along with his own little lie. 

“Or you’re lying.” Kor’a’zam said. 

“Maybe I’m just trying to impress you.” Kural winked in the sleaziest way possible. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t try at all then.” 

“Surely I’m not  _ that _ ugly.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, troublemaker,” 

“I will. Like you’re one to talk, anyway.” 

“Oh, come off it.” 

It was strange, but Kor’a’zam liked egging Kural on, enjoying their bickering. Since it was all in good fun, it couldn’t be harmful, could it? All good relationships thrived off  _ something _ , and theirs was picking on each other until they got sick of it. 

“Is that a dragon?” Kural asked, cupping his hands around his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. 

Kor’a’zam shook his head. “We’ve joked about this too many times, come up with something fresh. A Silver Hand gang, perhaps?” 

“Too soon. Kodlak was killed by that last raid, and he was a bloody good man.” Kural said. 

“My apologies. I didn’t really know him, to be honest. How in Oblivion did you know him, anyway?” 

“Secret.” 

“You slept with one of those wolf-men, didn’t you?” 

“How did you know they were wolves?’ 

“Eh, caught one of them once. The bigger one, I think. I let him off.” 

“I slept with the smaller one, if you wanted to know. I like ‘em small and feisty.” 

It was that comment that made Kor’a’zam all too aware of the significant difference in height between the two of them. He was almost a head and a half shorter than Kural, as well as smaller in the chest. He didn’t mind, of course, since he couldn't change the way he looked, but Kural always seemed to jump on the opportunity to remind him of his sexual preferences and fantasies, a bravery Kor’a’zam sometimes hated, but also sometimes admired. 

“Wait, is that a dragon?” Kor’a’zam asked. 

“I just made that joke and you told me off for it!” Kural rolled his eyes. 

“No, no, I’m serious, is that a dragon?” 

“Of course not, you’re- by the Nine, that’s a dragon!” 

“Oh. And there’s a convenient group of warriors attacking it.” 

“Should we help?” 

“Nah, just pretend to shoot some arrows at it. By the time we run out there, it’ll be gone.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

The two of them fired off some arrows at the dragon until the warriors managed to kill it. Kor'a'zam watched with disgusted fascination as they sliced the scales from the dragon's body, before cutting its chest open and ripping out its bones. It was foul work, but Kor'a'zam supposed it was worth the paycheck at the end, given how valuable dragon-bits were. 

"Now the dragon's gone, I'm bored." Kural sighed. 

"Do your job then." Kor'a'zam smirked, sheathing his bow and walking off to another section of the wall. 

Kural followed him closely, although he made it seem as if it was pure coincidence they were walking the same way, ignoring Kor'a'zam's groans of annoyance when he stopped and Kural kept walking, pushing the other man along in front of him. 

"Oh, I didn't see you there. Why're you following me?" Kural grinned down at Kor'a'zam. 

"I was about to ask you the same thing." Kor'a'zam said. 

"But… you're following me, so…?" 

"Whatever." 

Kural pretended he was intrigued by something over the wall, taking it as an opportunity to pin Kor'a'zam against his chest, gazing out to the terrain below and ignoring the sighing protest of the other man. 

One thing he didn't expect, however, was that Kor'a'zam didn't even bother trying to push him away, instead wrapping his arms around Kural's waist and pulling him in closer. 

Kor'a'zam was well-aware of Kural's struggles in figuring-out what to do next. Given the response he was getting, he decided to take things up a notch and put his head on Kural's chest, closing his eyes sweetly as if this were the only place he'd like to be.

A few moments later, Kural hugged Kor'a'zam back, pulling him in tightly around the shoulders. 

"Let's have an arm wrestle." Kor'a'zam murmured in a romantic voice. 

"What? Why?" Kural's arms loosened a little as he looked down at Kor'a'zam, trying to gauge an expression. 

"I don't know. I want to see how quickly I'll lose." Kor'a'zam's voice was still quiet and he kept his body pressed against Kural's. 

"You're very spontaneous, aren't you?" Kural asked. 

Kor'a'zam's hummed in agreement, pulling reluctantly away from Kural. Their eyes met for a second when Kor'a'zam's looked up, but the moment passed when Kor'a'zam stepped cautiously out from between Kural and the wall, taking off at a brisk pace to sit at a table a little way down the path. 

Kural fixed Kor'a'zam with a pointed grin as he sat down, placing his arm on the table with a thud. Flexing his fingers, Kor'a'zam held his hand out for Kural to grab and rested his elbow on the hard wood of the table, back hunched and ready to wrestle. 

Kural counted down from three and the two of them began to arm wrestle, twisting their bodies this-way-and-that as they got in the best position to counter each other. Being the bigger one, Kural had a strong advantage, but Kor'a'zam often tricked him by feigning, manipulating him into making mistakes. After one last escape from losing by Kor'a'zam, Kural swore and let go of his arm, seemingly to give up. 

"I was wondering how fast you could make me lose, not how fast you'd give up." Kor'a'zam teased. 

Kural didn't respond for a moment, standing up and stretching. The next thing Kor'a'zam knew, however, Kural had leapt toward him and grabbed him by the shirt, throwing him roughly into the wall. 

Kor'a'zam dodged as Kural made another grab for his shirt, wrapping his arms around the bigger man and pushing him away, making sure to trip his legs at the same time and force him to fall over. They fell to the ground together, Kor'a'zam keeping a firm hand at the back of Kural's head, careful to ensure he wouldn't smack it against the stone ground beneath them. Reacting quickly, Kural sat up and hooked his arms around Kor'a'zam's waist, lifting and dropping him onto the ground beside him, then leaping on top of him and straddling his body until he was completely pinned down at the arms, legs and chest. 

Kor'a'zam gazed up at Kural through his eyelashes, hoping it looked as seductive as he imagined. He could feel Kural relaxing against him, grip on his limbs going slack as he leaned down with his eyes closed. For a moment, Kor'a'zam debated whether or not he should use this to his advantage and wrestle Kural away, but the other man was so close that his breath brushed against Kor'a'zam's skin, making him much too curious to lose this opportunity. 

Kural was soft and slow, something Kor'a'zam found unexpected. He wasn't sure why it was so surprising, but given how physical they usually were with each other, it seemed strange for Kural to go softly with something as primal as a kiss. As they kissed, Kor'a'zam became all-too-aware of Kural's movements, breath hitching when Kural's hips dropped to press against his stomach and his hands released their grips on Kor'a'zam's wrists, coming up to rest beside his head, fingers finding their way through his hair. 

Kor'a'zam wrapped his arms around Kural's chest and relished the feeling of the muscles tightening against his hands as he tried to pull him down, forcing him to resist and keep himself above Kor'a'zam, unwilling to crush him into the ground. 

Kural pulled away, fingers still idly teasing Kor'a'zam's hair. 

"I think I can hear a bandit group." Kor'a'zam murmured. 

"You're a fool." Kural laughed softly, shaking his head. 

"You already knew that." 

"Unfortunately." 

"Kiss me again." 

"Bit demanding, aren't you?" 

"Only when I'm trying to make a decision. I need all the facts before I can do that." 

"Oh? What decision are you trying to make?"

"What to do with you." 

"I think I'm the one deciding what  _ I  _ do with  _ you _ ." 

"You can do anything you like. I meant more along the lines of, I don't know, will this last, or what even is this, you know?" 

"I think it could last." 

"Kiss me again." 

"Don't tell me what to do." 

"By the Nine, you're a nuisance." 

Kural stood and pulled Kor’a’zam up with him. Smiling, he kissed him softly one last time, before getting back to work and acting as if nothing had happened. 

The next hour was spent with their usual familiar bickering and teasing, gasping and pointing at imaginary bandits or dragons. At one point, Commander Caius stopped by and they had to pretend they were working, pointing out the dragon they had ‘helped to kill’ earlier. Both men had to refrain from laughing when Caius announced they’d be receiving a pay raise for their work. 

At the end of the shift, they swapped out with some Nord twins. Dawdling down the stairs, Kor’a’zam chatted idly with Kural until they reached the bottom. 

“Can you carry me home?” Kor’a’zam asked. 

“What?” Kural chuckled softly. 

“I’m tired.” Kor’a’zam fluttered his eyelashes and pouted. 

Kural shook his head, but he was grinning and holding his arms out to Kor’a’zam. The smaller man stepped forward, but spun Kural around so that he had his back to him. Kor’a’zam slung his arms over Kural’s shoulders and jumped up, hooking his legs around his waist and giggling at the soft ‘oof’ from Kural as he stumbled forward a little trying to balance himself. Kor’a’zam pressed a soft kiss to the back of his head and snuggled against him, letting himself sag into Kural’s strong arms. 

Kural hefted Kor’a’zam up and ambled down the road. 

“Hope you boys aren’t getting up to mischief!” Oliva the Feeble called when she saw them. 

“Of course not, ma’am! Why would you even think that?” Kor’a’zam flashed her a charming smile. 

“Oh, you know full-well why I’d think that.” Oliva laughed and winked. “Enjoy yourselves, eh?” 

“Thanks Oli.” Kural said. 

Kural hummed softly to himself. Kor’a’zam listened, tapping his fingers in time with the melody and nodding his head slightly, allowing his body to relax even more against Kural’s back. Everything was still in the streets of Whiterun, as if the world itself had drifted off to sleep, not just its inhabitants. 

“You want to come to my place?” Kural asked suddenly, the fresh night air disturbed by his hot breath. 

“You got wine?” Kor’a’zam asked sleepily. 

“What do you take me for? A Nord?” Kural laughed. “Of course I do.” 

“I suppose I could stay at yours, then.” Kor’a’zam murmured. 

It was a few more minutes of walking before they reached Kural’s little wooden home. Kor’a’zam grumbled softly when Kural gently lowered him to the ground, but cooperated and stood by himself as Kural unlocked the home and opened the door, leading his companion inside. 

Sighing in relief, Kor’a’zam plonked himself down onto a couch and kicked off his shoes, curling up in the soft cushions. He reached out a lazy hand when Kural gave him a goblet of wine, beckoning for the other man to lean down and let him press a soft kiss to his cheek in thanks. Kural nudged Kor’a’zam aside a little, sitting in the space he’d created and pressing his back to Kor’a’zam’s stomach, relaxing against him as if he were a pillow. 

Kor’a’zam hooked his arm sneakily around Kural’s waist and held him, basking in the warmth of the larger man as he sipped his wine. It was a comfortable existence, he had decided. One he could certainly get used to, anyway. 

Surprisingly enough, both of them stayed silent as they drank, simply enjoying each other’s company without a worry for what would happen next. It was peaceful and quiet, the soft glow of a lantern bathing the room in a romantic kind of light, as though attempting to set a specific sort of mood that neither of them were concerned for. 

Kor’a’zam could feel himself drifting from reality as tiredness and the wine tingled in his body. Kural was still warm and fuzzy against his stomach, something he was grateful for as the cool air pressed against his face, as if beckoning him to curl-up against Kural and hold him tightly for the rest of the night. 

“You can spend the night in my bed, if you like. I’ll sleep out here.” Kural offered. His kindness was surprising to Kor’a’zam. Not because he thought Kural was a mean bastard, of course, but because usually the man would take any opportunity to flirt with him, although now he was being sweet and unbelievably  _ soft _ , crooning gently as though hoping Kor’a’zam would stay still and silent with him for a few moments longer, at whatever the cost. 

“That would ruin half the fun now, wouldn’t it?” Kor’a’zam smirked. “Take me with you, won’t you darling?” 

Kural hesitated. “You’re not too tired?” 

“Ah, so this was because you weren’t sure if I wanted a romp. I’ll go for a ride, long as you do all the driving.” Kor’a’zam smiled lazily up at Kural. 

“I’m sure I could make some arrangements.” Kural said, picking him up. He carried him over to the bed, kissing him tenderly as they went. 

And what a ride it was. 


	11. Of Gods, Nords and Moon-brothers (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Mawa, Berfarid and the werewolf lads.

The children had woken up from their fitful sleeping. They would drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, sometimes calling for their mother after an unpleasant dream, or curling into a ball when they grew cold. Mawa sat silently and watched as they settled themselves back to sleep, staring with fascination when Samwell woke with a start, before wandering over to his brother's bed and climbing in to lay beside him. It was a strange thing to watch. Mawa hadn't grown up with siblings and in all her years had never seen werewolves reach out to each other the way the boys seemed to. They were solitary creatures (usually), or at least when it came to their human side. The Beasts inside them didn't often allow the people they inhabited to trust others or forge relationships outside of the Hunt, and even then, any relations were rocky at best. 

She found herself worrying about the potential of one of them Turning and attacking the other, but given the closeness they possessed as people, it seemed unlikely. Soul-grabbing spells existed for a reason, anyway, which was why Mawa had spent years learning them. Sometimes, it was better to manipulate a person than to fight them. Perhaps it was an unethical way of seeing the world, but Mawa stuck with the philosophy. It was a sensible theory and she's proven it to be correct many times when it came to conflict. Or, given the nature of her practice, the non-conflict. The peace. Mawa created peace among people, or she tried to. That was better than some others could say for themselves. 

Berfarid had come in several times through the night to check on her and the children, asking Mawa if anything had happened while he was gone. He’d also noticed the children in the bed together, and muttered something about how they’d slept the same way when he found them. 

It was midday. Mawa was still sitting in the corner of the room, watching the boys. The book was back in its spot on the table and ready to begin collecting dust again. 

Samwell woke first, stretching upward and wincing as his bones cracked and his injuries became painful. 

“Drink this.” Mawa had poured out some medicine into a ladle when she first noticed him stirring. 

Samwell took the ladle from her carefully, his arm trembling, almost spilling the potion inside. He drank it slowly. 

“Come now, it doesn’t taste that bad. I’m sure you would’ve had something worse.” Mawa chuckled at Samwell’s scrunched-up eyes. 

“I’m not sure I have.” He muttered. 

“You hungry?” 

“Oh. Yes, actually. Berfarid fed us last night, yes?” 

“Yeah, he did.” 

The boy blushed. “I must remember to thank him.” 

“I’m sure he didn’t mind. He cares for you both.” 

Mawa found the young thing curious. Real, solid, self-aware empathy in a child? A rare thing, that was. 

Samwell followed her to the kitchen and sat beside the cold hearth. He watched with interest as Mawa threw firewood in and lit it, poking the wood around with a metal pole until they caught on fire and sparked up. The embers drifted around lazily, floating through the air and resting back on the floor. 

“Morning.” Berfarid walked into the room. His voice was hoarse with sleep and his clothes were rumpled from use. 

“Ah, let me get you all some fresh clothes.” Mawa stopped preparing breakfast and went back into the hall. A storage cupboard was near the infirmary, and she could vaguely remember some quality clothes hung up in there. 

As she approached the infirmary, she found herself slowing to a sneak. Nathon was standing at the entrance to the room, gazing around with wide eyes, shaking. Sweat dripped from his forehead and ran across his cheeks. His gaze darted over to Mawa. He froze, eyes narrowed as he tried to register her presence. 

“Nathon, your brother’s in the kitchen. I’ll take you there, I just need to grab something first.” Mawa approached him slowly, unconsciously holding her hands out by her sides so that he could see her peaceful intentions. 

The boy nodded, but didn’t move. 

Mawa walked past him and a little way down the hall. The closet was there and had many sets of adult clothing. She grabbed out the smallest clothes and boots she could find, then took clothes she thought were around Berfarid’s size. 

Nathon took the clothes from her when she held them out for him. 

“You can change, if you like. I’ll wait for you outside. Let me know if you need any help.” Mawa told him, leading him back to the infirmary and gesturing inside. 

“I… need your help. My apologies.” Nathon said in a defeated tone after a few minutes of Mawa waiting for him. The boy had managed to get his arms out of the tunic, but he was still stuck around the torso. 

Mawa eased the filthy shirt off him and dumped it on the floor. She dutifully removed his pants and boots, then slipped the fresh clothes onto him. After all that, he was sweating profusely, so Mawa went into the infirmary and made him a cocktail of potions that would bring down his fever and remove any pains. He drank it all with no complaint and followed Mawa through the halls in silence. 

The two walked into the kitchen to find Berfarid and Samwell already eating, bread crumbs dropping onto their fresh clothes and the floor, jam sticking to their fingers. 

“You’ve become acquainted with my pantry, I presume?” Mawa laughed at the sight of their sheepish smiles. “It’s quite alright, help yourselves. Gods know I won’t eat it all anytime soon” 

“That cold room, what was that?” Samwell asked. 

“The cold room, beside the pantry? It has ice walls, and I store my meats, vegetables and fruits in there. It does a wonderful job of keeping them fresh.” Mawa explained. She grabbed the bread that Berfarid had left out, spreading butter and jam over some slices for herself and Nathon. The boy smiled gratefully at her and sat at his brother’s feet, leaning against his chair and tilting his head to rest against Samwell’s side. 

Mawa sat beside Berfarid. 

When everyone had finished eating, Mawa stood up and clapped her hands to get her guests’ attention. 

“Now, you are all staying with me for a few days, so I must lay down some rules for you all. Firstly, please don’t go anywhere in this place you haven’t already been. If you are lost, stand still and call for help. I understand that as men, you may find this embarrassing, but I must tell you, getting stuck in a gas chamber or getting sliced apart by a trap is a much more embarrassing thing to experience than asking for assistance. 

“Secondly, please don’t take any supplies without my knowledge, unless it is food. Many of the items here are under enchantment, and if you're not careful they may cause significant injuries. I myself have lived here many years, and I still don't know what everything does. If you're in pain, or feeling hot or cold, whatever, let me know and I can fix you up some potions, but don't do it yourself because I highly doubt you would even be able to recognise many of them. Most of the potions are specific to the Dwemer and are not typically used for medicinal purposes, so even if there are instructions for use, don't try it yourself, they may be in reference to combat, and they will have different measurements to what you should be using. 

"Finally, let me know if there is anything I can do for you. I will show you the library and I'm sure I could find some Dwemer gadgets for you to fiddle with, should you get bored while you heal. 

"Speaking of healing: you'll need to stay here for a few more days at least. Turning is an unpredictable event in a werewolfs' life, and since you are only young, it may happen multiple times before you find yourselves capable of controlling it and harnessing its power. If you do find yourself losing control, please don't be distressed, it will only make the process harder. I will warn you, it will be painful and draining, but you mustn't fear it. Your Beast will feed on your fear. It will use it as an opportunity to take advantage of you. 

"Berfarid, you're more than welcome to stay as well. I'm sure you're concerned for the boys' well-being, yes?" 

"Of course." Berfarid smiled at the children. They beamed brightly back. 

"I'll show you to the library then." Mawa gestured for them to follow her, something she still hadn't quite gotten used to yet. 

Guests staying with her. What a strange concept. So many things to organise, given that she wouldn’t be able to work all day, and that she’d have to watch the children, and perhaps even show Berfarid around the place, show the boys to fight, teach them things, but not raise them, she’d never wanted children, but what was to say they’d even stay for longer than a month, what if they tried to leave before that- 

No. She had to calm down. 

The library was a nuisance to get to, which seemed strange to Mawa. Did the Dwemer not concern themselves with the formal education of their children? Did they focus instead on practical teachings? It would make sense, she supposed, given their history of being at war with the Falmer. 

The Dwemer hadn’t built bookcases in the library, carving intricate shelves into the walls instead. They were filled to the brim with books of all different colours and sizes. 

“The books are in alphabetical order,” Mawa pointed to the shelves, “you two boys may like the ones on that wall.” 

“I’ve never been much for reading.” Berfarid muttered, gazing around at the books. His expression wasn’t disdainful, per se, but it wasn’t full of wonder either. He was indifferent, perhaps. 

The boys also seemed a little indifferent to the books, but Mawa supposed it was partially because they were intimidated. Young men in this country didn't often take to literature, she'd discovered over the years (and much to her dismay, since she'd always been an avid reader herself). 

"Perhaps you'll find something interesting. There's plenty of books that can help you with your skills." Mawa grabbed a blue book from the shelf and handed it to Berfarid. "The Dwemer may have been skilled enchanters, but they were also excellent smiths with a keen eye for weaponry and combat. Their knowledge may prove itself useful to you." 

Berfarid nodded and took the book from her, reading the title and the blurb on the back. " _ A Double-edged Blade _ . Is this a book of philosophy, or weapons?" 

"The philosophy of weapons. Just read it, then tell me what you think." Mawa kept the annoyance from her voice, speaking in an even tone. There was no need for conflict at the minute.

"Are all the books like that?" Samwell asked shyly. "I'm not very good at reading." 

"I'll help you if they are." Nathon murmured. 

Mawa smiled. "Of course not. I wouldn't expect you to understand all the books here. If it makes you feel any better, I struggled with some of them myself, and I read all the time." Mawa grabbed a book from the shelf and handed it to Samwell. "This one's quite good." 

Samwell flipped open the first few pages, skimming over the words and the pictures inside. 

"Alright, back to bed with you both. You need all the rest you can get." 

Samwell and Nathon began walking back to the infirmary without protest. Berfarid idled along behind them, already starting to read the book Mawa had handed him, eyebrows creased and lips frowning in concentration. When they reached the infirmary, he sat where Mawa had been perched last night, even resting his arm on the side table in the same position as her. Once the boys had crawled back into bed (together, with the book between them), Berfarid insisted on staying and watching over them while Mawa went about her business. She accepted the offer. 

"Just before you leave… I… well, I never actually caught your name." Berfarid smiled bashfully. 

"Oh. Mawa Breaksky. It's a smith's name, back in my country. That's what I do all day." Mawa told him. 

"I grew up with a blacksmith's son. Let me know if uh, well, I suppose you wouldn't, but let me know if you need any assistance." 

"What, I might need a big strong man's help?" 

"Oh! I didn't mean it that way!" 

"I'm just giving you a hard time, don't worry. You're being a gentleman." 

"Don't misinterpret me; I didn't mean anything by it. I have a wife back home, if that's any reassurance. Well, we haven't gotten married officially, but I promised her we would the next time we were both at home." 

"Both at home?" 

"She's a travelling merchant most of the year. Sometimes does mercenary work. It really just depends on the season." 

"Fair enough. What's her name?" 

"Dofila, a Dunmer woman." 

"I think I may know her. Had a drink with her once, perhaps. Her name certainly sounds familiar." 

"My wife is one for drinking with strangers." 

"You'll have to tell me stories later. Over dinner perhaps?" 

"Certainly." 

Mawa left him to sit, listening to the sound of Nathon reading to Samwell as she walked away. She decided she'd taken a liking to the boys. They seemed like such sweet young things, sensitive and capable of feeling, unlike many of the boys their age who grew up surrounded by abuse and war. It saddened her, the way children were treated in Skyrim. Upon visiting Honorhall Orphanage on a favour for a friend, she'd walked out feeling utterly miserable and helpless, wishing she could have taken all the children inside along with her to live in a better place, each with parents who would love and care for them. She would have adopted them herself, but the idea of motherhood had always scared her, and raising a child seemed tedious. She supposed if she was to be a mother, she'd certainly adopt a child, rather than giving birth to one herself. All that pain and the likely possibility of death just to bring a young life into a world full of hurt had never appealed to her, and she couldn't imagine that it ever would. 

The items she'd grabbed yesterday still sat in the forge, so she got to work. After finishing a few helmets and chest plates, she was interrupted by Berfarid yelling her name. 

Mawa took off running through the halls and reached the infirmary in what was probably record time. Berfarid was standing outside the partially-opened door, peeping inside. Mawa nudged him out of the way and peered through. 

Samwell had Turned, by the looks of it. He wandered the infirmary, sniffing at everything and licking the floor. Nathon sat in the bed still, knees curled up at his chest, which Mawa could see was heaving with quick, fearful panting. Samwell's large silver eyes snapped over to stare at Mawa, a low growl rumbling in his throat, hackles raising and teeth slipping out from under his snout as he snarled. 

Mawa stood silent and still. She held Samwell's gaze steadily, unwilling to give in to the Beast, wanting to show it who the boss was in this city. Growling and lowering his head, Samwell submitted, stalking off and lying on the ground as Mawa stepped forward to grab Nathon. She ushered him out of the door, closing it behind him and sitting with her back leaned against it. Samwell was still lying on the ground and staring at her with baleful eyes, ears twitching, long claws tapping against the ground in a humanlike manner. 

They stayed like that for a few more hours, watching the other warily until Samwell was able to Turn back. Mawa grabbed him fresh clothes and shoes. 

Berfarid had made himself and Nathon dinner, by the looks of the kitchen. Cleaning as she cooked, Mawa made something for herself and Samwell, keeping extra portions in mind, since Turning was a hungry affair. 

Scoffing everything down, Samwell had finished his meal within minutes. He waited patiently for Mawa to finish eating before asking for more. Mawa obliged without question, not wanting to make the poor boy feel as though he were intruding or foolish for his eating habits. The second serving was also shovelled in, but Samwell seemed satisfied after that.

Yawning, Samwell asked if he could go to bed. Offering her hand, Mawa pulled him up from the chair and guided him through the halls, stopping to peek into Berfarid's room. Nathon was, as she suspected, staying the night in Berfarid's bed and she smiled at the sight of him curled up, hugging the Nord's arm tightly. 

"Do I have to go to the infirmary?" Samwell asked sleepily. 

"You're old enough to sleep by yourself," Mawa said, "but you did just Turn. I don't know. Hop in, see what happens." 

Smiling, Samwell pulled Mawa in for a tight hug, burying his face into her ribs. She hugged him back, before nudging him off into the bedroom. Nathon stirred a little as Samwell climbed into the bed beside him, but thankfully didn't wake up. Berfarid, however, did. Head snapping up, he looked too see what was happening, relaxing at the sight of Samwell, who had somehow already drifted off to sleep. Gently prising his arm from Nathon's grip, Berfarid clambered out of the bed and stumbled over to the door, sighing at the sight of Mawa. 

"You scared me." He muttered, shaking his head. 

"Nathon certainly looked comfortable." She said.

"I think as long as there's a warm body nearby, that boy is comfortable anywhere." 

"Can't the same be said for us all?" 

"Haven't you lived here alone for years?" 

"I have a sword to keep me company." 

"A sword?" 

"My Soul is bound to it. You Tamriel-dwellers, by the gods, you've no idea what it is to see magic." 

"I've never been one for spells." 

"No, not spells, just… magic. In its purest form, just existing around us and changing things without our own intent." 

"Can't say that happens around here." 

"What'd you get up for, anyway?" 

"Figured I'd let them have the bed. Plus, someone will need to keep an eye on them." 

"And what do you think I've been doing these past few nights?" 

"Surely you need to rest at some point." 

"Not really." 

"Rest anyway. I feel bad making you do all this, I barely know you." 

"You watch them during the day. It's only fair I watch them at night." 

"One of them's Turning." 

Berfarid opens the door slowly, revealing a twitching Nathon. 

Mawa nodded. "You're learning the ways of the Beasts then, eh? He certainly is Turning." 

"That's what Samwell was doing." Berfarid shrugged. 

Nathon's hair grew longer, morphing into fur and spreading across his body. Limbs stretching, he began to take on the shape of a wolf, feet and hands turning into paws with large claws on the end. 

Creeping into the room and grabbing Samwell, Mawa tried to be as silent as possible, not wanting to disturb Nathon and cause him to lash-out. As she got to the door, a low growl came from behind her. Sighing, she turned to see Nathon watching her intently, silver eyes flashing. With a guttural snarl, Nathon leapt off the bed and stalked toward her, teeth snapping dangerously. Mawa laid Samwell on the floor carefully and watched as Nathon crept forward, hooking his teeth into the collar of his brother's shirt and beginning to drag him across the floor, away from Mawa and beside the bed, laying down and curling against him. 

Mawa shook her head and stepped back outside. "These two are strange." 

"How so?" Berfarid asked. 

"Beasts usually don't care for others, even those in their pack. It's just odd to see their relationship continuing, especially within their Beast minds." 

"I couldn't imagine being this close with my brother. At this age, we were brawling over anything and everything." 

"Oh well. I suppose we'll just leave them be when they Turn, make sure they don't break anything. If they haven't hurt each other already, it's unlikely they'll do it anytime soon." 

"Makes sense." 

"You'll have to stay in the infirmary tonight, by the looks." 

“At least the children are alright.” 

“That’s always the chief concern. They are our future, after all.” 

"Goodnight." 

Berfarid went to go to the infirmary, but Mawa stopped him. 

"Berfarid? Did you want to contact your wife? There might not be couriers around, but I can send a pigeon." She said. 

"Really? That'd be fantastic." 

"Write something, I'll send it for you." 

Berfarid grinned, wandering into the infirmary with a dazed look of delight. 

Mawa wondered what it was like to be that in love. Waking up next to a warm body every morning, holding someone close every day, kissing a person you loved every night. It must have been good. That would have to be why so many people willingly did it. No matter how many other people seemed comfortable with the idea, however, Mawa knew she would always be fearful of committing to a relationship with someone. Her Soul was bound to her sword already, so it didn’t matter anyway. 

Setting herself up outside Berfarid’s bedroom didn’t take long. A chair sat beside the door, beside it a small table with a drink and a book set upon it. Sitting down, Mawa sighed deeply and let go of all the action from the day, only just coming to realise how anxious the boys’ Turning made her. Nervousness in this kind of situation was perfectly justified, although Mawa still felt a pang of guilt. The boys were the ones suffering, not her. 

Pressing her ear to the door, Mawa listened carefully. Silence met her, but she didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. She shook her head and cleared the negative thoughts away, reassuring herself and insisting they would be perfectly safe. 

Despite her attempts at positive thinking, Mawa found herself drifting further and further into despair as she thought of the poor children. Watching their parents die and probably in the worst way possible, then being subjected to torture themselves, a kind that would potetnially ruin their lives. Mawa figured it couldn’t get much worse than that. Part of her had convinced itself the boys were old enough to take care of themselves, but the smarter part of her knew the boys were only children, barely old enough to even begin the process of becoming grown men. It was her obligation as a capable adult to help them. 

The boys deserved to grow up somewhere they felt safe. If that meant Mawa had to throw aside her fear of parenting and companionship, she would do it, preferring her own suffering over the childrens’. 

It was final. She would work to the best of her ability to help these children, no matter the cost. 

\---

Berfarid leaving for home was a miserable affair. He’d stayed with Mawa and the children for a month, sending letters to his wife every few days and receiving a few himself. After a while of this, he announced he would have to leave and go home, since his wife would be finishing her merchant’s tour and going home herself. Mawa felt her heart grow gloomy at the thought of his departure, but she disguised her emotions well and kept her thoughts from her new Nord friend, knowing that his decision was fair. 

The boys weren’t as good at hiding their emotions. Mawa had overheard them crying in their bed a few times, sometimes murmuring reassurances to each other, but ultimately both succumbing to tears. 

Over breakfast Berfarid would discuss the children with Mawa as they debated what to do with them. While they both agreed Berfarid couldn’t look after them himself, they had to consider the possibility the boys would want to travel to Winterhold or Whiterun. 

“I don’t know how I’d get them to Winterhold. I mean, Dola would understand if I went to Whiterun, but  _ Winterhold _ ?” Berfarid said. 

“I heard they’ve built stables in Winterhold. I could pay for a carriage.” Mawa shrugged. 

Berfarid shook his head, sighing. “Too dangerous, they’re not old enough to fight off bandits.”

“What are you talking about?” Nathon asked. 

Berfarid and Mawa exchanged a wary look. 

“We can’t keep it from you, I suppose.” Mawa smiled sadly. “Berfarid’s leaving, obviously, but we’re not sure what that means for you boys.” 

“What do you mean?” Samwell asked. 

“Berfarid can’t take you home with him, and I don’t know if it’s appropriate for you to live with me.” Mawa explained. 

“What do you mean?” Samwell asked again. 

“You’re only young, both of you. If you were to live with me, it would be in isolation, away from other children your own age. And, I must say, I won’t be able to offer you everything. For example, if you were to go to Winterhold, you could study with the mages there and learn to master magic, or if you went to Whiterun, you could live with the Companions and learn to fight as honourable warriors.” Mawa said. 

“What would happen if we stayed here?” Nathon asked. 

“I could teach you about smithing, enchanting, alchemy and fighting but that would be it, really.” Mawa said. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Nathon turned to his brother, “we could make armour!” 

Samwell grinned. “I bet I could make better stuff than you first try!” 

“This is a big decision. Are you absolutely sure?” Berfarid asked in a stern tone. 

Both boys smiled at each other, then turned to look back at Mawa and Berfarid, nodding firmly. 

“It’s settled then.” Mawa announced. Her heartbeat had sped up significantly as fear took hold of her heart, but she swallowed it down and grinned at the boys, hoping they wouldn’t notice anything amiss. 

She was going to raise these children, all on her own. 

\---

“Be good. I’ll visit when I can.” Berfarid told the boys, kissing their cheeks in farewell. They held him close between them, unwilling to part ways and wanting to keep him for as long as they possibly could. 

“Come anytime.” Mawa said. 

Berfarid stood, gently brushing the boys off and walking over to Mawa. He reached and and pulled her in for a tight hug, whispering quietly to her. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done. I promise I’ll come back soon to check-in with you all, alright?” 

“Alright. Bring your wife, yes?” Mawa pulled away, meeting his eyes. 

“Dola would love to come here.” Berfarid beamed and took one last look at the city. 

The boys waved desperately at Berfarid as the Nord sauntered off down the road. 

Mawa sighed, wondering how in Oblivion she’d managed to come across two werewolf boys. Some questions were better left unanswered, she supposed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about everyone else, but I love to think that the Dwemer invented tonnes of cool, modern stuff, similar to what we have today. That's probably my favourite thing about writing this kind of stuff, actually, since I can describe modern stuff but with that good ol' Dwemer twist. 
> 
> Also, Mawa and Berfarid serving as platonic guardians to two Imperial werewolf boys? I think yes.


	12. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thief and a guard.

"Wait… I know you." 

The second last words any thief worth her salt wanted to hear, right after the phrase ‘that house has already been looted’. 

Nif took off running, legs pumping hard as she ran through the snowy streets of Windhelm, short hair flopping against her head with each bound. She dodged a corner, wrapping her hand around a lantern post to keep her balance. 

The guard from before was shouting down the street, voice echoing against the walls of the houses. Some citizens poked their heads out of their windows to see what the commotion was about, sighing at the sight of Nif and her sack of gold. 

Heart thumping, Nif ducked into the Shrine of Talos, quickly leaping behind the statue and praying Nocturnal would hide her. 

The doors of the Shrine opened. Nif winced at the sound of metal clinking, the tell-tale sign a guard was nearby. She forced herself to breathe slowly and calm down. 

Time crawled as the guard wandered through the Shrine, sighing every once in a while. Eventually, the clinking footsteps drifted further away and the doors of the Shrine opened, cold air sweeping in before being cut off abruptly as the door shut. Nif held her position for a few more seconds, finally relaxing when she was sure she was alone. She stepped away from the statue, chuckling to herself when she realised where exactly she'd been standing. 

_ Nice arse _ , she thought, highly amused that she'd stood with her face in that region. She gave Talos' hand a quick pat, looking down at the floor and sending a mental thank-you to Nocturnal. 

Nif picked up her sack of gold, stood in a shadowy corner of the room and began sorting the coins into different pockets of hers, distributing everything evenly. When she was satisfied with her work, she tossed the sack aside, pulled her cowl around her head and stepped out of the Shrine. Scowling at the snowflakes falling from the sky, she pulled her cowl tightly against her face and strode to Candlehearth Hall, ignoring the cold air biting around her eyes. 

Once she stepped in, warmth immediately engulfed her. It was a heavenly feeling as her body heated up and her muscles became looser. A lovely Dunmer bard was singing upstairs, so Nif bought herself a mask, a room and a few drinks before heading up and sitting beside one of the fire pits, watching as the bard pulled out a lute, playing it with deft fingers. Nif tied the mask around her face securely, lifting it slightly when she took a drink. After a while, the Dunmer lady walked over to her and sat down, taking a sip of a drink that had already been sitting on the table. 

"You're not afraid someone will drug you?" Nif asked. 

"No, I watch my drinks very closely. I don't drink when someone's sitting here, anyway." The pretty thing said. 

"Mmm. What about me?" Nif asked. 

"You don't look very harmful." The Dunmer shrugged shyly, unsure of her answer. 

"I was just asking, since I've seen the way some of the Nords treat Dunmer women here," Nif reassured her, "and then I asked what you thought of me because I like to flirt with pretty ladies." 

"Oh!" The Dunmer woman blushed. 

“It’s alright, love, just tell me to stop if you like. What’s your name?” 

“Luaffyn. You?” 

“Nilla. I’m a traveller, hunt for treasure in tombs and such.” 

It was a practiced lie, a thing she told anyone she decided to flirt with. Doing so made it much easier to not form attachments. 

“That’s incredible! I’m just a bard, really, nothing special.” Luaffyn was still blushing madly, her cheeks a brilliant purple. 

“You have a very beautiful voice.” Nif winked. “I’ll tell you, I can’t sing for my life.” 

“Oh, I don’t think you’re  _ that _ bad.” 

“You’ve only just met me!” 

“And I already like you.” 

“I’ve been told I’m a charmer.” 

“That’d be an understatement.” 

They kept flirting as the night went on, chatting and drinking together until they were both bored and looking for something to do. Nif took her mask off and winked, holding her hand out to Luaffyn and asking her to sing one last song, making sure to tell the pretty Dunmer that she didn’t care what she sang, as long as she used that gorgeous voice. 

Nif twirled Luaffyn around the room as they danced, though Luaffyn fell into a fit of drunken laughter by the end of the first verse so they danced without music. Grinning, Nif chided Luaffyn for laughing, but was interrupted when the bard leaned in and kissed her. 

“Scandalous, we can’t do this in public!” Nif shook her head theatrically. 

Luaffyn gave her shoulder a playful shove. “Take me back to your room then.” 

“Your wish is my command.” Nif led her down the stairs and to her room. 

As Luaffyn’s hands fumbled to undo her leather armour straps, Nif kicked the door closed behind them. 

\---

Waking up next to a warm body was something that still managed to amaze Nif. She took one long, lasting look at the thin little face, kissed Luaffyn’s freckled cheek and silently crept out of the room. Each step she took, her body seemed to grow colder again, as if preparing itself for another few weeks of being isolated in the wilderness. 

It was rather selfish, she supposed, the way she’d coax a drunk into spending the night with her by making up a story and weaving a tale based on half-truths, all of it just to satiate her own hunger for human contact. She only made it worse by worrying how many people there were left in the world who she wasn’t already known to under the alias of Nilla. The number was already low enough due to the population of guards, and unfortunately they knew her as the thief Nif, not even as her fake-self. 

“Nif!” That was a guard now. 

Nif froze, recognising the voice from last night. She couldn’t put her mask on now, that would be too suspicious. She’d just have to pretend she was a twin, maybe go and get Luaffyn to back-up her story of being an adventurer-

“Don’t run, I know who you are.” A hand grabbed her shoulder. 

Nif turned slowly, completely silent. Hopefully the guard could talk themself out of recognising her - it’d happened before. 

“You remember me?” Nif looked up at the guard, frowning in thought. She gasped. “Girolda?” 

The guard grinned at her, her face still soft and familiar after all these years. “The one-and-only. I can see you’ve been up to a bit of trouble in these past few years.” 

“Only a little, you know me.” Nif shrugged playfully and winked. 

“Your secret is safe with me. I’m off-duty, so I can’t arrest you anyway.” 

“That’s very reassuring.” 

“Come have a drink with me. There’s a new inn by the docks.” 

“That’s good. I don’t think I’ll be welcome back at Candlehearth.” 

“You steal something else?” 

“Someone’s heart. I slept with the bard there, didn’t say goodbye.” 

“Only you could get yourself in that much trouble.” 

“Lead the way to this new inn.” 

Nif followed Girolda through the streets of Windhelm, cursing at the cold air as it bit her skin. People waved to Girolda and greeted her merrily as she passed, giving Nif friendly but wary nods, as if unsure what to make of her Bosmer blood. 

The docks were somehow colder than the city itself. Girolda laughed at Nif’s shivering, grabbing her by the shoulders and guiding her to walk in front of her Nord friend in order to shield her from the icy wind. Nif smiled gratefully, already feeling a little less cold without the wind blowing against her back.  _ Nords and their cold blood _ , she thought to herself. 

Being with Girolda was like drifting from reality. Years had passed since she last saw the dear woman and that had been in Falkreath, miles away from Windhelm. She supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her to see her again, but she hadn’t been ready. She’d never been ready; that was why she left in the first place. 

Girolda, of course, was acting like nothing had happened. Smiling and laughing and talking to Nif as though they had never been apart for more than a few days, when in reality it had been a long seven years. It was a kind gesture, though a part of Nif hoped that Girolda would just be upset with her for five minutes and air her grievances rather than leading her on and then ruining the night. It was hypocritical of Nif, since she’d done the same with Girolda on a much larger scale, but she still wished it would happen, that Girola would keep up this charade of kindness until they at least spent the night together and Nif ran away again, like she had on that bitter winter night all those years ago. 

In short, Nif was a coward and she knew it. She wanted everything to  _ work _ but wouldn’t lift a damn finger to help herself, before playing the victim when things went wrong. 

Girolda reached past her and pushed open the door of the quaint little inn, holding it open and guiding Nif in with a gentle hand. Nodding in thanks, Nif stepped through and breathed in the warm air. 

“A little early for a drink, isn’t it?” The rugged-up Imperial woman tending the bar teased when Girolda ordered a round of mead for her and Nif. 

Girolda laughed. “You’re speaking to an honest Nord woman here.” 

“I suppose I shouldn’t chide you. You’re making me the most money in this place.” The woman handed the mead over. 

“We’ll be in the usual spot.” Girolda gestured for Nif to follow her. 

They passed several rooms along the way, which Nif was surprised with. Some of the doors were open and she took the opportunity to peek in, seeing cozy-looking beds, warm hearths and little wooden wardrobes set up, bringing a homely feeling to the cold stone walls. 

A set of stairs were hidden around the corner at the end of the hallway. On the landing at the top, two chairs and an end table sat by a frost-ridden window overlooking the docks. Girolda waved her arms in the direction of the seats, bowing with the grand gesture. Nif took comfort in the knowledge that Girolda still acted like a fool after all these years, displaying typical Nord immaturity at its finest. 

The pair sat down heavily and kicked off their boots, each grabbing a bottle of mead. 

"I don't mean to get all heavy on you, but…" Girolda took a deep breath, as if considering her next words very carefully, "I've forgiven you. For leaving, I mean." 

Nif nodded, unsure what to say in response. 

"I understand why you did it and I really don't blame you for feeling that way. Gods, I did. I considered running. I'm just… sorry I wasn't enough to keep you around." Girolda admitted earnestly, her cheeks flushed, though not with embarrassment. It was a completely honest statement, Nif could practically hear Girolda's heart racing at the idea of such a confession. 

"I'm sorry for running. You never had to forgive me, I wouldn't have." Nif couldn't meet Girolda's eyes and she cursed herself for her cowardice. 

"I was upset and disappointed and I still am, really, but I understand why you did it and how you've moved on." Girolda said, staring down at her mead with an empty look in her eyes. 

"You were enough to keep me around, by the way." Nif muttered before she could stop herself. 

It was a selfish thing to say and she wanted to punch herself in the side of the head for it. She didn't deserve Girolda, she never had. Now she was just misleading her the same way she had all those years ago, dragging her along with the same innocence as a child, pulling her by the hair, prepared to dump her body off the side of a cliff just like that cold winter night seven years ago. Nif was a damned fool and she knew it, she just wished that knowledge would help her stop. The only problem with stopping was that lying was just like skooma, and once you got a taste for it you would find yourself unable to get it off your tongue, unable to recognise the foul after-taste only when you were tasting the real thing. That was lying to Nif, so she kept doing it. 

The only problem was, this 'lie' she had told Girolda was still partly the truth. 

A sharp intake of breath, then, "Then why in Stendarr's standing did you leave?"

"Because I wasn't enough for you."  _ That  _ was the lie. Now she was going back to her old, manipulative ways, hoping to make Girolda feel guilty enough to take her back. 

“You were.” Girolda sighed. “You aren’t anymore, but you were.” 

It felt like being stabbed in the back, even if she fully deserved it. She wasn’t enough? What was she, then? Only a tiny bit? Just under? 

“That’s the past, anyway.” Girolda smiled tightly and stood. “I’ve gotta report for duty in an hour. I suggest you’d best be off before then, if you wanna keep your goods.” 

Nif nodded, tongue feeling thick. She listened to Girolda's slow, creaky descent down the stairs and stared through the windows absently, waiting until she figured the other woman was well down the street and heading back into the city. She stood up, her stomach feeling empty and her head feeling light. 

This was all wrong. Girolda was going to come back and apologise for her hurtful words, wasn't she? 

No, Nif knew she deserved it. She'd done this to Girolda, manipulated her and lied, stringing her along. It was only right for her to get left behind, condemned to her thieving ways for the rest of her life. 

She took Girolda's advice and fled Windhelm. Ran from the only thing that might have convinced her to settle down and live a normal life. Maybe if she hadn't run away all those years ago, they would've bought a farm somewhere and lived with little children. Maybe they would've become travelling merchants, selling goods and trinkets all over Skyrim. Maybe they would've become adventurers, hunting tombs and catacombs for long-forgotten treasures. 

Nif would never know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time I write a lesbian couple and they don't even end up together... 
> 
> It wasn't supposed to go this way, I swear! Originally they were gonna get back together, then Nif decided to be a bitch and Girolda was like, "Well, this isn't working anymore. Bye." 
> 
> So yeah. Proof that I'm possessed by the characters I create. Always changing the story on me. 
> 
> I actually thought this was good though? Not to toot my own horn (I am) but yeah this just had a ~flow~ to it when I reread and I was kinda surprised. Maybe I should write more about deadbeat thieves. 
> 
> Also, I don't know how anyone else feels when they hear the dreaded "wait... I know you" but I just leg it and start running. I may be in the Thieves Guild and have Speech 100 (that I hacked, thanks Ungrien), but I'm not dealing with the dialogue.


	13. Not So Alone (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onmund x Male Dragonborn (my boy, Sewen)

A  _ pfff-pfff-pfff  _ sound comes from the wall ahead. Sewen grabs me roughly by the shoulders and spins us both around so that his body shields mine, dwarfing me completely. 

He swears under his breath, crushing my shoulders in his hands as he jolts in pain. I stare up at him, frozen with fear, but unable to produce any magicka and defend myself from potential threats. 

The  _ pfff _ sound stops. Sewen pants heavily, body heaving as he shudders and gasps for air, his grip tightening violently against my shoulders before going completely slack as he stumbles away, swearing and leaning against the wall. As he turns away from me, I notice arrows sticking out from his back. Reaching out hesitantly, I think to grab one, before snatching my hand away and remembering the process of treating arrow-wounds properly. 

Sewen's head snaps around too gaze at the end of the walkway and I look in the same direction. Before I can react, he's snatched up his battleaxe and with a pained grunt, heaved it over his shoulder, running toward the end of the walkway with a defiant shout. A bandit stands there, waiting for him, sword and shield at the ready. 

Sewen's first strike, blocked. His second, blocked again. He makes a surprisingly agile dodge when the bandit swings his sword, then makes a powerful strike with the axe, knocking the man off-balance. Sewen takes a deep breath and swings the axe above his head. It falls unceremoniously into the skull of the bandit leader, who falls to his knees, grip on his sword and shield becoming slack as he takes his last few breaths. 

Sewen stands for a few more seconds, but finally succumbs to his injuries, falling onto the wall and sliding down onto the ground. 

Raising my hands, I will warmth to spread to my fingertips. Cursing, I wave my hands and get rid of the flames that appear. Wrong warmth. I have to calm down. 

Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and count, counting still as I hold my breath, then exhale. My heartbeat slows and I can hear myself breathing properly now. I take a firm step toward Sewen and force myself to continue walking, kneeling down slowly beside him and placing my hands on his upper back. I try again, willing for warmth to come to my fingertips, smiling at the golden glow that finally appears. 

Popping and squelching sounds come as the arrows slide out from Sewen's back, the skin pulling itself back together and repairing. Sewen punches the stone wall a few times, cursing as the pain courses through his body and becomes a constant throb. A few arrows still stick out from his back, so I grab one gingerly and move it a little, sighing in relief when Sewen doesn't wince; it must just be wedged into his armour then. With a harsh yank, I remove the rest of the arrows and dump them on the ground in a neat pile. 

"Thanks." Sewen mutters. 

"I'm so sorry." I say, standing up and practically falling over as I try to get away from him. Why would he want to be near me? I almost got him killed. 

"It's fine." Sewen smiles, but a wince interrupts it. 

"I almost killed you!" I can't get away from him. He's too damn big. 

"I should've walked in front of you. It's my fault, really. Plus, coming in here was my idea in the first place, hm?" Sewen chases me as I try to get away. Perhaps not  _ chases _ , it's not like I'm running, but he follows me along, not wanting to let me get too far away. 

"I should've seen the plate." I shake my head. 

"I've been in hundreds of these caves. I should've known better." Sewen says. 

I've backed myself into a corner. "I should go back to Winterhold." 

"No. This isn't your fault." Sewen reaches out and grabs my arm gently. "See, I'm all healed. You know why? Because you healed me. Without you, I'd be dead right now, I reckon." 

I can feel my throat closing up and I swallow the lump as hard as I can, but it comes back anyway, threatening my eyes with tears. Blinking profusely, I look away from Sewen, or try to, but the next thing I know, he pulls me closer to him and his arms are wrapped tightly around me, holding me close as I let go of everything and weep, my shoulders shaking against his broad chest. I bury my face into the crook of his neck. 

Murmuring softly in my ear, Sewen strokes my hair comfortingly and holds me securely, as if he were my tether to the world. When I put my arms around him, it's like I can't grab hold tight enough, not wanting to let him slip from my fingers in any way for fear that he might leave me and never come back. Who wants to be with a man that almost gets you killed and then acts as if he is the victim? 

Sewen doesn't let me go until I calm myself and stop sobbing. His eyes are sympathetic when he pulls away and he reaches out to wipe the tears from my face, large fingers somehow still incredibly gentle. 

"It's alright." Sewen tells me, hugging me again. "I kept you safe, didn't I? I said I would." 

I would argue with him, but I still feel choked-up. 

He holds me close, murmuring his words. "I pushed you a little hard by making you come here. I will tell you, though, these were a particularly nasty bunch of bandits. They're wanted all over Skyrim." 

I still can't say anything. 

"And you know what 'wanted all over Skyrim' means?" Sewen asks, his voice at normal volume now as he pulls away to reveal his grinning face. 

"What?" I manage to croak. Divines, how weak am I? 

"Tonnes of loot!" Sewen says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the walkway and over the body of the bandit leader. 

Now, when Sewen said 'tonnes of loot', I didn't realise he meant chests upon chests' worth. I thought more along the lines of one chest with a few valuables, because they would've already sold most of their merchandise. 

Sewen throws open the chest lids and gazes inside, smiling giddily at the contents. 

"Think I might be looking at my new battleaxe." Sewen reaches in and heaves out a huge axe with a wicked grey blade. It glows a rich red. 

"They have spell tomes. That's strange." I say as I open another chest, finding stacks of different tomes. 

"Pick out ones you like, then. We'll sell the rest." Sewen tells me. 

I frown. "Don't you want to sell all of them?" 

"Not if you want some. I've got plenty of money anyway, I just like collecting and selling things for the fun of it." 

"Right." 

"There's a few staffs in here, if you'd like to look." 

"Oh, I'd rather use my own magic." 

"Fair enough." 

"I might just… take these ones, if that's okay." 

"Take whatever you like." 

"Thanks." 

I grab out six spell tomes I've never heard of and stack them carefully in my arms. A cart sits in the corner of the room and I walk over to it, putting the tomes on the ground and lifting up the cart, wheeling it over to the tomes chest. After attempting to pick it up myself, Sewen jumps to his feet and runs over, lifting up one end and helping me lower it into the cart. He praises me for finding the cart, but is already wheeling it over to another chest before he can notice me blushing. 

We stack a few more chests into the cart and wheel it out of the cave, pushing the dead bodies of the bandits aside along the way. The carriage driver watches us, feigning indifference, although unable to keep the little glimmer of interest from his eyes. 

"How do we transport all this? It won't fit." I ask. 

Sewen grins. "I'll tie it all to the back. There's a spot we can dump it safely just up the road and it won't be disturbed." 

"Can the horse take that kind of weight?" 

"Of course. Don't worry about a thing." 

Sewen follows through with his words, tying the chests securely. We go back into the cave and grab the rest, fix our belongings and jump into the carriage, trundling away down the road at a steady pace. 

"Merrick, stop just here please." Sewen instructs. 

Merrick clicks his tongue and the horse comes to an obedient halt, throwing its head back with a snort and clopping its hooves against the road. 

I look around us and spot a little shack to the left. Sewen jogs over, pulling a key from his pocket as he goes. Slotting it into the front door, he unlocks the place and slips inside, lighting it up with what is presumably a lantern or candle. I begin to untie the chests. 

The floorboards of the shack have been moved and stacked aside, revealing a large (but not deep) pit inside. We make short work of moving the chests into this space, conveniently managing to fit them all in with no difficulty. Sewen lays the floorboards down again, placing them carefully so that they don't creak when walked on and appear completely attached to the ground. After that, he picks up an end table and places it so that it covers one end of the floorboards, making the job of moving them more difficult for any potential thieves. 

Door locked, bags ready, we hop back in the carriage and head off to Riverwood. According to Sewen, we've about seventeen hours to go and he suggests I take a quick nap before we get there, but I wave the notion off and ask him to tell me more of his stories. As we eat he obliges, telling me something about travelling into the mind of a madman and having to help him in order to please Sheogorath. Next comes a story of when he helped some girl in Riften prank her horrible aunt, and then he's telling me all about the time he hunted all over Skyrim so that he could find a woman twenty jazbay grapes, only to come across a whole grove full of them in the tundra after he'd already gotten enough. We talk until sundown, and by then my eyes are growing heavy. Contentedness embraces me as the rocking of the carriage puts me off to sleep for the night. 

When I wake up, there's a warmth pressed against my side. I open my eyes groggily and try to look, groaning when I realise I'm leaning on Sewen's shoulder. 

"Morning." Sewen gazes down at me. 

I lift my head up. "Morning?" Everything's bright and washed in pale yellow light. 

"You slept through the night. We got delayed for a few hours by some rocks, but we're almost there." Sewen explains. 

"Sorry for sleeping on you." I say. Then it registers. I slept on him, as if… oh gods, I am getting much more comfortable with this man than I should be. 

Sewen shrugs and gives me a kind smile. "You looked comfortable." 

"You're arms are much softer than they appear." 

"Well, I haven't been training with weapons for the last week, so I might've gained a little weight. How do you keep so fit when using magic?" 

"Pardon?" 

"You're a… skinny thing, I suppose. You're certainly not fat. What I mean, is, it's not as if you're using your body  _ physically  _ to do magic. So, how do you stay so fit?" 

"Oh, I… I don't know. I've always been this way, I suppose. I do use weapons sometimes. I'm good with a greatsword, I just prefer magic." 

"Fair enough. Oh! That's the town in the distance!" 

I look in the direction of Sewen's pointing. We've just come onto a path along the river, Riverwood sitting quite far ahead, but certainly visible. The town looks very pretty and idealistic from here, although something else happens to catch my eye. 

"Are those the Guardian Stones?" I ask Sewen. 

Sewen nods. "Merrick, can you stop at the stones please?" 

Merrick sighs, but draws the carriage to a halt when we reach the stones. 

"Actually, why don't you go on ahead? We'll walk the rest of the way and meet you back at the house. My parents will invite you in for a cuppa, I promise." 

Merrick nods and flicks the reins of the horse, trundling down the road without us. 

We approach the Stones from the side, so there's no proper stairs. Sewen takes a big step up, before turning to offer me a hand. Taking it, he pulls me up beside him and steadies me. 

Magical energy radiates from the stones, echoing in the air around us and pulsing through my skin. I reach out to touch the intricate carvings on one of the stones, but Sewen grabs my wrist before I do. 

"When you touch a stone, you accept its blessing. Choose carefully." He says. 

"This is the Mage's Stone, right?" I ask, pointing at the Stone with the image of a sorcerer carved into it. 

"Yeah. Then the Warrior and the Thief." Sewen gestures to the other Stones as he mentions them. 

The carvings of the Stones are so beautiful. The detail held within them is incredible and delicate, certainly the kind of thing only months of effort and hard work could produce. 

My fingers brush against the Mage's Stone, feeling electric as they press on the carving of the sorcerer. Magic makes the air seem thick as it comes out of the Stone in a wave of blue and envelopes me, wrapping tightly against my body and seeming to breathe life into it. Heart racing, the magicka around me shifts and sways, all the wild energy joining my own and becoming tame. 

When I turn to look at Sewen, his hand is pressed against the image of the Warrior. His chest rises as he takes a deep breath in. We stand at the Stones for a moment, then Sewen steps away and walks off slowly, stretching his arms out until the bones crack. I follow along hesitantly, my fingers falling from the Stone. Magicka still pulses in the air around me as I go, pressing against my skin and willing me to keep walking. 

Riverwood is teeming with life when we arrive, which is strange, given how small I thought it was. Wasn't it just supposed to be a little town near Whiterun, with a mill being the centrepiece? This place could almost be a city of its own, with small houses and shops built everywhere. 

A blonde man around our age runs up to us as we enter the town. 

"Sewen!" He says, holding his hand out and shaking Sewen's firmly.

"Hey Sven. How are you?" Sewen grins at him good-naturedly. 

"Camila and I are finally getting married!" Sven gushed, gesturing wildly at a store down the road. 

Sewen claps him on the back. "Good on you, congratulations. When?" 

"I was actually going to send you an invitation tomorrow. Guess I don't have to anymore, hey? It'll be in a month's time." 

"Oh. Da tell you I'm at the College now?" 

"Yeah, he told me last week. Well done, by the way." 

"Thanks. Anyway, speaking of Da, I should be heading home. I'll see you at the inn tonight?" 

"Where else would I be?" 

Sewen laughs and waves goodbye to Sven, leading me down the road. More people call out to him as we pass, one man tossing both of us an apple and winking, telling Sewen his son would be hanging around the inn tonight. 

"That's Ha'idad. He's always trying to get me to marry his youngest son." Sewen explains when the man is out of earshot. 

"Of course." I say. Ha'idad's son would be a very lucky young man to marry Sewen. 

"I don't like him much, to be honest. I wouldn't say it to his face though. He's a few years younger than us, anyway, so I think it would be weird to court him, since I knew him as a kid." 

"Right. So, what, he's not your type, or it's just weird that you used to know him?" 

"Both. I dunno, I like nice guys, not brawlers. And, trust me, he's gotten into more fights than you can count on your hands." 

"Sounds like a _ great _ guy." 

"What's your type?" 

"Huh?" 

"Well, I like nice guys. What about you?" 

"I like nice guys. I… don't really know, other than that. Funny guys?" 

"Looks like we're both very specific, hey?" 

"Oh yeah. I've set the bar very high." 

"Impossibly so." 

"Is that your parents' farm?" 

A huge farm sits in the distance, beside it a little orchard and a group of cows. Workers are tending to crops in the field, but they lift their heads to stare as Sewen and I wander past. One Argonian farm boy calls out a greeting, waving excitedly at Sewen with a huge grin on his face. 

"Hey Calling-Cry!" Sewen waves back at the boy. "My parents around?" 

Calling-Cry nods. "They're in the house with that carriage driver, I think." 

"Perfect. I'll come by again later, alright?" Sewen yells, pulling me along with him. 

"Sounds good!" Calling-Cry gives him a thumbs-up and gets back to work. 

Sewen ushers me through the front door of the house, where I walk straight into two men. 

"Oh, hi!" Sewen says from behind me. He pulls me back against his chest, which I can't decide whether it's more or less embarrassing, since my face feels red-hot and my hands are sweating profusely. 

"We were just coming to get you." One of the men is absolutely huge. I can definitely see where Sewen gets it from. He has dark blue hair as well, just like Sewen. 

"And who's this?" The other man (who is an average size, thank the gods) asks, smiling kindly at me. 

"This is my friend from the College, Onmund." Sewen is still gripping my shoulders. 

"Well, hello Onmund," the smaller man holds his hand out to me, "I'm Aslef, Sewen's da. This is his fa, Jorind." 

I shake their hands. Sewen finally lets me go and skirts around me, pulling Aslef in for a tight hug, then doing the same to Jorind. 

"Come through, we just got a fire going." Jorind gestures to a sitting room to our left. Sewen follows his instruction obediently, so I do the same, perching on a chair and hoping I'm not seen as an intruder. 

Paintings are up on the walls of the cozy room. My eyes are drawn to one in particular, a centrepiece among the rest. In it, Jorind and Aslef stand in a wheat field together, seemingly lost in each other's gaze. It's strange to look at. Not because they're strange themselves, obviously, but I don't think my parents were ever that in love. Maybe I ruined their lives and made it so they didn't have time for those sorts of things. 

In another picture, Sewen is tending to some cows with Aslef. Then another of Sewen holding a huge basket of brown fur, probably a cow's. Sewen and Jorind standing beside an archer's target, arrow pinned there in a bull's-eye. Jorind and Aslef horse-riding. It's incredible to look at, like it's a chronicle of Sewen's life, growing older in each picture, but always with the same grin. 

"That's my favourite." Aslef points at a painting on the far left. 

It's a beautiful painting. They're by a lake and Jorind stands in the middle. Aslef stands at his side and they look down on a swaddled-up baby that is curled into Jorind's chest. 

"That was back before the fast-track paintings. We stood there for gods know how long, and even then we had to cut it short because Sewen started crying." Aslef laughs softly to himself. "The first painting." 

"My favourite's that one." Sewen eyes shine with a light green and he points to a different painting that shows the three of them standing by a river, a huge fish held between them. 

"That was a damn good catch, wasn't it?" Jorind comes in with several bottles of mead clutched in his large hands. He hands a bottle to each of us and I accept mine, even if it seems a little early for drinking. "My favourite's the one on the end." 

It's a painting of the three of them. Jorind and Aslef stand together, hands resting on the shoulders of an adult Sewen, who's petting a large dog that is sprawled across his lap. 

"Where’s Hope?" Sewen asks Aslef. I almost choke on my mead. Isn't that a bit of a heavy topic to discuss right now? 

"Off chasing the cows probably. Or on one of his silly little adventures. Maybe he'll bring home a present for Master Milywen and his guest." Alsef winks at me. "Don't expect too much, he's not a very clever mutt." 

I almost choke on my mead again. Of course, Hope is the name of their dog. 

"So, Onmund, where do you hail from?" Jorind asks. 

"I grew up outside Windhelm on a farm. Started attending the College two years ago and… not much else to tell, really." I say. 

Jorind shrugs. "Don't worry, I came from beginnings like yours. You've your whole life ahead of you still, plenty of time for making memories." 

“Onmund’s very good at magic, you know.” Sewen says, ignoring my accusing glare. 

“You’d hope so,” Aslef grins, “attending the prestigious College of Winterhold. I don’t think they accept just anyone.” 

“They let  _ me _ in, didn’t they?” Sewen chuckles. 

“You were always breaking things as a child. And altering them. They would’ve been fools not to see your potential as a mage.” Aslef waves him off. 

“What do you study?” Jorind asks. 

“I study Restoration and Destruction, mostly.” I say. “A bit of alchemy and enchanting as well.” 

Sewen raises an eyebrow at me, then tells his parents everything I’ve told him about my studies at the College. Any attempt to stop him from speaking is thwarted, so I give up and let him continue. As he talks they make exclamations and give me astounded looks, Aslef murmuring something about me being a 'smart little biscuit' and Jorind shaking his head in disbelief. 

My parents never showed this much interest in my studies. They were quite the opposite, actually, choosing to berate me for my Restoration research and my weak enchantments. Surely Aslef and Jorind would lose interest soon, see through the novelty of it and realise how I've failed my family. 

"Your parents must be very proud of you." Aslef says. 

"Oh, well… no. My family kind of- they kind of hate me." I can't help rubbing my neck when I say it, not wanting to meet Aslef's probably accusatory stare. 

"All the more reason to do well in the College then!" I look up to see him smiling brightly at me. 

"Really?" It slips out before I think it through. 

Aslef laughs. "Of course! You know, I was a Nord raised in Cyrodiil. When I reached my first years of manhood, I decided I wanted to move to Skyrim, start a farming business similar to the one at home. 

"Now, my parents, they weren't too happy with the idea. When I told them I wanted to go, they admitted they'd arranged me a marriage with a boy we knew well from another rich family like ours. It broke their hearts when I said I didn't want to marry him. Not because of any particular reason, but I wanted to go to Skyrim, not settle! 

"We fought a lot for a few weeks. They cried, I cried, my sister did too. So one day I just packed my bags and left without telling anyone. Left a note on my desk and took off in a carriage driven by a good friend of mine. He got me into Skyrim and we parted ways. 

"The first few months I built up money from taking up bounties in Falkreath and Whiterun, until I'd finally saved enough to buy some land in Riverwood. I met Jorind here and everything sort of went from there. We got married, built up the farm. 

"My point is, Onmund, my parents came around once they saw I could do things for myself, they realised they were wrong and forgave me for leaving. If you pursue magic, if that's what you really want to do, your parents will see that. Maybe right now they're scared, maybe they think they're losing you still, and they are, but it's for the better. You're learning, growing as a person and you can only do that without them. They have to let you go, not the other way 'round." 

I don't really have anything to say to that. I don't think it's the same for me, though. My parents really do seem to hate me, they've never appreciated anything I've done for them. 

Aslef stays quiet, watching me carefully with sympathy in his eyes, a slight frown on his face. 

"Some parents just don't understand their children," Jorind said, "I struggle to talk to my parents even now. They didn't want to see my son grow up and that was their choice, that's just how they are. If your parents are like that, well, it's not your fault." 

"Whose fault is it, then?" I ask. Surely it's mine? I should be reaching out to them, telling them how I'm doing and making sure they're okay. I'm a terrible son. 

"Theirs." Jorind shrugged. 

"But I'm the one who left, how can it be theirs?" It doesn't make sense. 

"You seem like a good lad, I'm sure you would've contacted them after you left. If they don't respond to you, that's their choice. And they're your  _ parents _ . They're the adults, you're the child. Children shouldn't be expected to fix relationships with their parents. It took me years to learn that." Jorind says. 

"Right." I nod, unsure of what to make of their kindness. Did they really think it wasn't my fault? I'm still the one to blame here, but it's nice to know someone's in my corner, anyway. 

"Uh, I know this is kinda important, but… did Merrick come in?” Sewen asks his parents. 

Jorind laughs. “He did. Grumbled something about you taking your little friend sight-seeing.” 

“Did he make you pay him?” Sewen shuffles nervously in his seat. 

“Tried to. For the price he wanted, though, I think he was lying to us, so I told him you’d meet him at the tavern. Apparently you owe him a drink?” Jorind raises an eyebrow at Sewen, smirking. 

“We went cave-diving. I told Merrick I’d buy him a drink for every hour he waited.” Sewen sighs. 

“That’s my boy, making cheap-skate deals and weaseling his way out of handing over cash!” Aslef chuckles and claps his hands, sticking his tongue out at Jorind. “So much for your honourable ‘paying money’, eh?” 

“Oh, get out of my face, you fool.” Jorind pushes his shoulder gently, but then pulls him back into his side, an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. 

“Not in front of the children!” Aslef exclaims jokingly. He kisses Jorind on the jaw and settles against him, going entirely against what he’d said. 

Jorind, however, takes him seriously and pushes him off. When Aslef protests, he shakes his head. “No, no, not in front of the children, darling. Your own words.” 

Aslef sighs and giggles, pressing himself onto Jorind and nudging him persuasively. 

“On that note, I think us  _ children _ should go and unpack our bags.” Sewen stands up, grinning at me. I follow him out of the room and through to the foyer, where there’s a wooden stairwell. 

He leads me up, stairs creaking softly beneath our feet. There's a landing at the top with potted plants by a window, sunlight streaming in and shining through the leaves. 

Sewen points to a room on the left. “This should be your room,” he peeks in, “yeah, it is. My room’s opposite. My parents are at the end there, and that’s just another spare room. Your room has a bathing area attached, by the way, so don’t worry about disturbing anyone during the night or anything.” 

"Thank you." I smile at him and step into the room, closing the door behind me when I hear him go into his own room. 

My bag sits at the edge of a double-bed. I slide it down under the bed and look around the room. A few paintings hang on the walls, though these ones are of more generic things, like a field of sheep or the entrance of a beautiful, moss-ridden cave. 

There's a few wardrobes as well, but I don't open them. Perhaps they use them for personal storage. The bathing room is lovely, with a large tub. A small, glazed window perches high on the wall and light drifts in lazily, making the room a pale white. 

Unsure of what to do with myself, I leave my room and stand outside the door, hovering there while I wait for something to happen. After a few minutes, Sewen glances out, startling when he sees me. 

"You wanna come in?" He asks, pointing behind him into his room. 

"Oh… am I allowed to?" I walk toward him cautiously. 

"If you want to. You don't have to, I just saw you standing out here." Sewen explains. 

"Right." I go into his room, not sure what to expect. 

It's very similar to my own room, with a double-bed and a few wardrobes, though I'd assume they're definitely full of personal things. A few paintings are up on the walls, however one in particular catches my eye. 

"You're the Dragonborn?" I ask. 

"What?" Sewen follows my gaze. "Oh! Yeah, I… I am. Did I not tell you that?" 

"No, you… sort of failed to mention you were one of the most powerful beings in the known world." I say. 

"I forget sometimes." He admits with a sheepish grin. 

I can't take my eyes off the painting. "You forget an experience like that?" 

"Yes?" Caution takes an edge in his tone. 

The painting depicts Sewen knelt in front of the body of a dragon, bloodied sword laid on the ground beside him and his head hanging down. The body of the dragon is halfway through the process of turning to ash, the flakes floating up into the air and becoming a purple essence with streaks of gold. The essence is floating around Sewen, some of it touching his shoulders, being drawn in as if it were simply sucked from the air. 

“A friend painted it, I was in Morthal at the time. Absorbed the dragon Soul and everything kind of went from there.” Sewen frowned. 

“What does it feel like? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean, you don’t have to tell me!” My cheeks burn. 

“Sick. I get a bad fever, my head feels all blocked up, I’m dizzy, nauseous, achy. The works. I don’t really like it, to be honest.” He sits on his bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His eyes are a dark blue colour, matching his hair. 

“What about after?” I ask. 

“Nothing. Doesn’t change a thing. Well, it sort of does. When I was younger and got sick normally, I’d usually get over it in a few days. Now, I think the Souls make it so that I don’t feel better until it’s been at least a week. I dunno why. I just go along with it now, hope for the best.” He looks positively miserable for a moment, his shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. 

“Have you spoken to someone about it? Maybe the Arch-Mage could help you.” I say. Is that the right thing to say? 

“No, I…” he looks up at me with a sad smile, “I’ve only ever told you.” 

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I stay quiet. 

“I think it’s the whole ‘understanding face’ thing you’ve got going on.” He chuckles softly, like he doesn’t mean it. 

“Not even your parents know?” I thought they were all so close. 

“I don’t want to worry them.” It comes out in a dismissive mutter. Of course, I come up with a bad idea. Just another one to add to the list of my failures over the years. 

I fidget and shift uncomfortably, unable to force myself to stay still. 

“Let’s head to the tavern.” Sewen stands up and stretches, an easy smile on his face when he looks over at me, though his eyes are still that deep blue colour. 

“Alright.” I follow him out of his room and down the stairs. 

In the living room, Jorind and Aslef are still on the couch. Aslef is sitting in Jorind’s lap, playing with his blue hair idly as Jorind snores. At the sight of us, Aslef smirks and rolls his eyes, gesturing to Jorind. He mouths the words ‘have fun’ at us, waving us off. 

We leave through the front door and head down the road that will take us back to town. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get the feeling Onmund's a little shy to ask what in Oblivion is going on with Sewen's eyes... just a thought. Maybe we'll find out soon! 
> 
> This is going for longer than I'd originally planned, but I can't say I'm complaining. I kind of miss writing about awkward characters whose humour isn't quite as smooth as some other *certain* characters that have popped up along the way (yes, Kural and Kor'a'zam, I'm looking at you two fools) although I'm also missing that tone of pure anxiety and self-doubt. What can I say, I love the angst! 
> 
> I don't know what it is with me and cute couples, but Jorind and Aslef can just have my heart. They can just take it. We love grown-ass men who still act like teenage lovers. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm also going to say sorry for this taking a little longer than usual to release. School's been kicking my ass lately (cough, cough, maths, cough) but I've been trucking through and trying to write in my spare time. Who knew writing an essay on the Nightmare Before Christmas was so time-consuming? Plus, I've been getting distracted by other writing projects, so that's also been taking some of my precious "One Shot" time.


	14. Keeping Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is just... I don't even know. Not in a bad way, but I really can't articulate my feelings about this one.

Arol Olduota stumbled into my house one night entirely uninvited. He never left. 

When he first walked through the door, he was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head and several others on his chest. He choked out one gasping plea of ‘help’ before collapsing, landing heavily atop the brown cowskin rug. 

I never did get those bloodstains out of it. 

Feeling a little light-headed and overwhelmed, I poured myself a glass of wine before carrying him to my bedroom and laying him on my bed, propping his white-haired head up on the pillows. I grabbed an old, unused medicinal kit from a cupboard by the front door and dropped it down heavily beside him. 

His head was the biggest concern, a large nasty cut trailing his hairline and matting the hair all sticky-red. The bleeding subsided fairly quickly, so I cleaned the wound with a sponge and grabbed a needle. His eyelids fluttered open and he regarded me with hazy yellow eyes, a small smile playing at his lips as if this was just a silly little mishap, not even caring for possible danger. His gaze drifted down to the needle and he blinked harshly, lifting his hand up to brush his fingers against his forehead. As his fingers grazed the angry, swelling wound, he pressed down softly, wincing and falling asleep again. Thankfully, he mustn’t have been too badly injured, because I could see his chest rising and falling with each breath he took, despite his shirt. 

I laid off the wine as I stitched the cut in his forehead. It was arduous, fiddly work, pulling the skin together tightly but without ripping it, dabbing gently with a sponge whenever a bit more blood decided to ooze out. It was made worse by the fact that my head was buzzing a little with alcohol, so I forced myself to swallow my fears of making a mistake and just got on with it. Frankly, getting pricked with a needle would have been the best of his injuries. 

When I’d finally finished the stitching, I cut off his shirt (or what was left of it, since it had been ripped to shreds already) to assess his injuries. 

Long, deep lacerations spanned across his chest, overlapping old scars. Dark blood was smeared all over his torso and shoulders, so I tried to clean it all off as best as I could with a soft cloth and warm water. 

Moaning weakly, Arol’s eyes opened again, half-lidded, and he grabbed my arm, squeezing my wrist gently and falling back asleep. 

Being a little more careful to be gentle, I continued cleaning him off, cursing quietly when I realised his blood was smearing everywhere because the cloth was already too soaked to be of use anymore. Cleaning this one off and trying to reuse it would be pointless, but as I tried to go get another one, Arol grabbed my wrist again. 

“Grab me a glass of wine… please?” He asked, giving me what was probably supposed to be a charming smile. 

I didn’t say anything in response, but I think me placing a second goblet of wine on the bedside table was a good-enough answer. Hand trembling, he raised it to his lips and drained it all in one go. 

WIth a contented sigh, he relaxed into the bed again. “Thank the gods you have good wine. Oh, and that you’re not a murderer, I suppose.” 

It was funny, but I didn’t laugh. I hadn’t done that properly in years. Of course, living out in the wild on my own, there were times where I had to laugh, but it would only come if I wept hard enough. 

“Thank you though, really.” He said. 

I waved him off. “I’m not finished. Rest.” 

Fresh cloth in hand, I began wiping away more blood from his torso. His thin waist spasmed slightly at the pain and made me realise just how small this man was. Compared to me, anyway, he was a little thing. Certainly not someone fit to travel the wilderness alone. Usually for a Bosmer and an Altmer, it was the other way around. I supposed we were both unusual. 

After I cleaned him off, I realised there wasn’t much I could do to actually treat his injuries. I wasn’t gifted in Restoration, had never even learnt the basics of it. Nothing else was bad enough to warrant stitches, which I was thankful for, so I rubbed some disinfectant cream on the wounds and hoped my bedsheets weren’t too dirty. 

“Is this your bed?” He asked. 

“Yes.” I said, packing away the medicinal kit. 

“You’re coming on a bit strong, don’t you think?” He joked. When I didn’t laugh he kept speaking. “Would you like me to move somewhere else?’ 

“No,” I said, standing, “rest.” 

Leaving the room, I closed the door behind me and went to the kitchen, grabbing some vegetables and meat to make a stew with. 

Arol was happy when I came in with dinner and a bottle of wine. He made some joke about me making up for moving too fast, but I ignored it. Instead I focused on watching him try to eat his stew, although his trembling arms failed him and he spilt it on his face and down his front. It was a good thing I’d let it cool down before giving it to him. Gingerly taking the bowl and spoon from him, I decided to feed him myself, to which he smiled gratefully. 

The moment he finished eating, Arol fell asleep. A few more mouthfuls of wine left me wanting to do the same, so I closed my eyes and fell asleep, pleased with the fact that Arol didn’t snore. 

The next few weeks were spent caring for him: Feeding him when his hands shook too much, walking with him when his legs grew too weak, bathing him when he bled through his bandages. If I hadn’t been such a lonesome creature, I probably would have grown sick of him. I think his humour kept the tedium of it all from setting in, though I couldn’t admit that to myself at the time. 

It’s because I was so hospitable that he decided to stay. 

“Hey Curem?” Arol poked my arm. 

We were sitting in armchairs in front of a warm fire, curtains shut over the windows and blocking out the moonlight. I put my wine glass and book into my lap. “Yes?” 

“How long has it been since you’ve seen another person?” He asked, a thoughtful frown playing on his lips. 

“I don’t know. Why?” I said. I really didn’t know. Years? Decades? I’d never had reason to keep track. 

“I just hear you talking to yourself sometimes. For hours. I thought you might be in need of some company.” Arol shrugged nonchalantly, as if he didn’t really care for my answer. He held his empty wine goblet out to me, a hopeful look in his eyes. For how they shone, I doubted he was only hoping for some more alcohol. “More wine?” 

He was very clever, trying to trick me into saying yes to both of his questions. I ignored him. 

“Please?” He said. 

“With manners like those.” I said dryly, pouring him another glass. It was difficult to not smile at his idiotic grin. 

“You do talk to yourself though? I’m not going crazy?” His voice tremored with theatrical concern. 

_ You’re already crazy _ , I’d almost said. I didn’t know him well enough for jokes, so I settled with a ‘yes’. 

“You can always talk to me if you like. I think you’re much more interesting than you let on.” He smirked knowingly. He was aware I’d caught onto his little game, but he knew I wouldn’t acknowledge it verbally. It was just a matter of plaguing me enough until I gave him a decent answer. 

He had this way of looking at me, like he knew a million secrets and wasn’t going to tell me a single one. It was a trick-catch: he wouldn’t tell me anything unless I asked, but if I asked, there’d be no point in telling me anymore, as the secret would lose its value. It was all very silly, although fun to play along with, teasing him with one-word answers and rarely rising to his baited questions. 

Not that I was particularly interested in his secrets. My intrigue would simply serve as an opportunity for him to demand information about my own life, which I had no wish to share with a complete stranger. No, I’d just relish the game, play along until he got bored with it. 

The day after we had our little discussion, he told me he’d ‘decided to keep me company’ in order to ‘repay his debt to me’. I didn’t have the patience to explain that him leaving would be more than enough to repay me. 

Instead, I found him a spare mattress in the cellar, pulling it out and rearranging my room so that both of our bed could sit neatly in opposite corners. He appreciated the gesture, then proceeded to ruin the experience with some joke about us being the strangest couple in Tamriel. I almost decided then to just move all my things into the living room, though the thought of having to explain myself to him was incredibly painful. He may have been a fool, but he was an observant one at that. 

After that, each day went by in the same routine. I would wake up in the morning, make breakfast, tend to the farm animals and spend the rest of the day doing odd jobs like foraging, hunting or crafting furniture. Arol would sit in the sun and whittle, sun catching in his white hair. Whenever I finished something, Arol would carve little details into it, curling patterns into the wood and smoothing it all out. 

When night came around, I would make dinner. We ate in relative silence, cleaned up and sat in the living room by the fire. I read a book over my glass of wine, ignoring Arol’s attempts of engaging me in conversation. Despite my feigned indifference to him, my reading pace had become irritably slower, his endless questioning turning more and more personal as the night wore on and we both got increasingly drunker. 

One night I drank quite a bit more than I’d originally intended to. Arol had been asking too many questions again, so I drained my glasses of wine rather than strangling him. 

“You ever been in love before?” Arol asked, entirely earnest and serious. His cheeks were flushed a bright red, which was unnerving against his blood-orange skin, the usual golden hue tinted by the flames of the hearth. 

“Once.” I said without thinking. 

“Who?” Arol asked. 

“What?” My drunken mind couldn’t comprehend what he was asking. 

“Who… who were you in love with?” He hiccuped at the ‘with’, but I understood him just fine now. 

“A sweet girl. Very sweet.” I smiled. 

“I remember a girl I joined,” Arol giggled, “we had a lot of fun together. When… she wasn’t angry with me for acting like… a fool. Obviously.” 

“She was always angry, then?” I asked, chuckling. 

Arol laughed gaily, his head thrown back and chest shaking. “You can be quite funny. Very funny.” 

I just smiled back, completely at a loss for words. I had been funny once, hadn’t I? Or I’d tried to be. For her, that sweet, humorous, talkative girl I’d been in love with. My heart ached at the thought of her, but my head and skin buzzed with warmth and drunkenness. 

The next morning, the conversation processed in my mind and I knew I’d done something horribly, horribly wrong. 

Terror seized me in that moment and I felt sick to me core, unable to understand why I had told Arol that. She deserved so much more than a drunken confession made on a whim. She deserved the stars, the  _ Sun _ even. She’d been my Sun, the light of my life, the queen of my love and the beholder of everything I held dear. 

I’m not proud to admit it, but I avoided Arol for the next few days after that. I retired early to bed each night, went for longer walks outside and didn’t make any new furniture for him to carve onto. 

On the fifth day, he came outside and followed along behind me as I walked, calling out a few times. 

“Curem.” He grabbed my arm. “Let’s talk.” 

I nodded reluctantly. 

“Why are you upset with me?” He asked, sitting down on a rock and pulling me along with him. It was uncomfortably close, I could feel his thin shoulder brushing my arm. 

“I’m not.” I huffed. 

“And I’m the smartest man in the world. Now that we’re done lying to each other, how about we start telling the truth?” He didn’t say it unkindly, but there was a decided haughtiness in his tone. 

“I’m not angry.” I said firmly. 

“I never said you were. What I  _ did _ say, however, is that you’re upset with me. Why?” He let go of my arm and rested his chin on the palm of his hand, gazing up at me through his long white lashes. 

“You made me talk.” It sounded so stupid as I said it. That was his goal, wasn’t it? Neither of us should have been surprised. 

“I may be an Altmer, but your opinions on my magical abilities are very racist,” Arol joked, “no one could make you talk.” 

I sighed. 

“What did I make you talk about that upset you?” He went back to being serious, a thoughtful frown on his face. 

“You know.” I said. There was no way he would forget something like that, even if he was drunk. 

“Your lover? Is that what you’re upset about?” He sounded genuinely curious, a thoughtful frown on his face. 

I nodded. 

“Well, I’m not going to apologise for making you talk about her. I  _ will  _ apologise for making a game out of it, though.” His tone was perfectly measured and sincere, soothing in that stereotypical Altmer way. It seems that even despite his unusually small size and humble attitude, he had picked up a few things from his people. “I thought tricking you into telling me about yourself was a fun little hobby and I’m sorry for that. It was entirely dishonourable and foolish of me.” 

“Why did you make me talk?” I asked, not bothering to acknowledge the apology. It was my own damn fault I’d opened my stupid mouth, not his. 

He was silent for a moment as he thought of an appropriate way to phrase his answer. “Have you ever entertained the possibility that perhaps you  _ wanted _ to talk about her?” 

“Not while drunk, no.” I said in a rougher voice than I’d meant to. 

“Drunk words are sober thoughts, my friend. You would never have told me, had it not been for a bit of wince loosening that unnaturally still tongue of yours.” He winked at me. “Unless, perhaps, I could’ve loosened it for you?” 

“I’m fine, thank you.” I stood up, holding a hand out to him. He grasped it tightly and I pulled him up, nodding in a way that indicated we were at a truce. 

“You mind if I walk with you, or would you like to clear your head for a bit?” He asked, sounding hopeful. 

I beckoned to him as I began strolling along down the old dirt path again. 

It was a familiar path, one I could go along with my eyes closed. Once upon a time this whole field had been covered entirely with a carpet of green grass and shrubs as far as the eye could see, but over the years the ground had become beaten and worn beneath my feet, despite my light Bosmer tread. A few fruit trees grew as well, having grown considerably large given their short lives of only a couple years. Soon they would be big and strong, ready to yield vast amounts of fruit for eating, jam-making and other things. Apples could be used for cider, and while I usually didn’t like anything more bubbly than wine, the prospect of a fresh taste had always excited me. 

Arol seemed very intrigued by it all, eyeing skittish rabbits with interest. He was very impressed when I shot one with an arrow. Glancing over at me for a moment with an unsure expression, he grinned giddily and ran to grab the rabbit, holding it by the scruff of its fragile neck and prising the arrow from its skull. The shaft snapped in half and he looked sheepish as he handed the broken pieces to me. 

The path led to a bubbling creek, full of little rocks, pebbles and muddy clay. Arol took pleasure in the childish impulse to jump from one side to the other, giggling manically when he almost fell over, not even worried about the possibility he could have cracked his head open. While it was concerning, it was also endearing and made me forget why I’d been so upset with him for those last few days. I liked him more than I’d cared to admit and found myself enjoying his company, even if his questions were aggravating. 

I sat on a log and watched Arol as he leapt about energetically for what ended up being over an hour. 

“You know,” Arol came running up to me, out of breath and cheeks flushed a bright red, “I was quite good at pottery back in my youth. I think that clay in the creek would be perfect for it. Maybe you could make a pottery wheel?” 

“If you drew it.” I said after only a moment’s thought. This Altmer had begun to rub off on me, it seemed. 

“Sketched the parts and whatnot?” He grinned when I nodded. “I can do that! You know, I just feel bad whittling and carving all day, while you’re out hunting and foraging and building and fishing and cooking and all those other things you do.” 

“I can’t believe there are times where I forget how much you like to talk.” I shook my head with a smile. 

“And sometimes I forget you have the ability to speak at all!” Arol laughed gaily. He looked at the creek as if he were about to run off again. 

“It’s getting late. We should head back to the house.” I said, gazing at the setting sun in the distance. 

This time, Arol pulled me up from my sitting. I followed him back along the path through the fields. 

“We should take some wine down there some night. I bet the moon shines on all the water and makes it all look very magical.” Arol said with a wistful smile. 

I snorted softly. “You? Drunk? Near water and rocks? I’d rather keep you home, and even then you’d get yourself into trouble.” 

“You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve called it ‘home’.” Arol said. His tone was even and his depression neutral, though the effort he put into looking indifferent was what gave him away as very proud of himself. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, playing stupid. The Altmer was much more observant than I’d originally given him credit for. That, or just bored enough to remember every word I’d said to him. I suppose if that were the case, he wouldn’t have a lot to remember. A part of me wanted to ask him to explain just to humour him, but another part of me knew that, deep down, I wanted someone else to articulate my problems to me so that I didn’t have to think about it myself. 

“You always call it ‘the house’, not ‘home’. Like it’s just a place you live in, or something.” Arol explained. 

“Isn’t that what houses are for?” I was distracting him then. I don’t know why. I think I’d been scared of what he’d say next. 

“No. Well, yes. But they’re for, you know,  _ living _ in. Not ‘I eat and sleep here’.” Arol waved his arms around in gesture as he spoke. “You treat it like it’s just a space, not like you’ve cooked meals there, or put hand-crafted furniture there, or sat by a warm fire with a glass of wine and a good book there!” 

“It hasn’t been a home for years,” I said, feeling brave now that I didn’t have to explain all that to him, “not after Martica died.” I didn’t say anything further, knowing Arol would prompt me with a question instead. 

“Was that your lover?” Arol asked, voice soft. His body movements were muted, limbs held rigid as he made an effort to not appear as aloof and full-of-energy as usual. 

“Yes. I wouldn’t say she was ‘mine’. She was a free spirit, I tagged along. I suppose I belonged to her.” I said. 

“What was she like?” Arol’s stillness was now effortless, his arms hanging limply by his sides as he watched my face with a deep and keen interest. 

“Sweet. Always amused, looking to make mischief. A few people told me she wasn’t all that good-looking, but…” I thought of her broad shoulders and chest, of her round stomach and large thighs, “she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.” 

“Maybe those people were jealous,” Arol suggested, “I remember back when I was young, girls would always pick on other girls when they joined with a boy. Some of the boys did it too, actually. Those were the times, hm? Listening to children brag about their stupidity and expecting everyone to admire them for it.” 

His tone was much more bitter than I’d ever heard from him. “Were you picked on?” I asked, genuinely curious. To think; something really did get to this man! 

“Oh. Well, you know, yeah. I’ve always been rather scrawny and most Altmer only consider muscular men attractive. It was never anything bad, of course, they just told me to eat more, or that I’d never have a chance of becoming a Thalmor Agent.” Arol chuckled darkly at my questioning look. “Oh, yes, the Thalmor are all the rage among Altmer children. Let the Altmer of Skyrim tell you what they like about hating the Dominion, but all Altmer children are raised on the possibility they will one day be selected to join the ranks of the Thalmor, if they’re worthy.” 

“Were you raised that way?” I asked. He didn’t seem the type to believe in that racist nonsense. 

“By the Nine, no. My parents were merchants in Skyrim when I was young. I only moved to Summerset Isle to live with my grandparents when I was in my early teens. By then it was too late to convert me; I wasn’t going to just forget all my lovely Nord friends.” Arol laughed, as if that level of brainwashing and manipulation wasn’t common in many mer households. 

“It’s too bad the Thalmor didn’t see your potential as a torturer. You’d talk until the prisoners wanted to kill themselves.” I said. 

We’d been walking quite slowly home, the sun already gone before the house was even in sight. Arol’s laughter echoed in the empty night air. 

“You’re a Bosmer. Did you get taught all that Thalmor idiocy as a child?” Arol asked when he’d calmed down. 

“No, it wasn’t considered very important for a peasant to receive that kind of education.” I shrugged. 

“Makes sense, I suppose. They wouldn’t want any poor people amongst their ranks now, would they?” Arol snorted sarcastically. “There’s home.” Arol pointed to our little home, nestled in beside the animal pen and chicken coop. 

“There’s home.” I repeated emphatically under my breath. It felt nice to say out loud. 

“You know, I’ve been calling it ‘home’ ever since I came barging in that one night.” Arol winked and smiled at me teasingly as he held the door open for me. 

“So have I.” It was supposed to be an offhand comment, something to tease him back with, but the moment I said it, the air around me seemed to become thick with tension. 

Arol stared at me blankly for a second, then a soft, sincere smile came to his face. All the tension dissipated. There was something else in his eyes in that moment, a warmth I couldn’t place my finger on, familiar and yet so distant I couldn’t recall it, a memory hidden away in the depths of my mind. 

That warm look stayed in his yellow-eyed gaze forever after that. 

The silent moment between us passed when I strode off into the kitchen to make a quick dinner with the rabbit I’d hot while walking earlier. We ate in a comfortable silence, as usual, cleaned up and went to sit in our armchairs by the fire. 

Arol was surprisingly quiet and brooding that night, only sipping his wine occasionally as he stared into the depths of the flames. I ended up uncharacteristically deep in my cups that night, though I forgave myself for it, considering how much I’d revealed about myself to Arol. 

I’d fallen asleep on the armchair that night, for I woke up the next morning to a note on my bedside table that said ‘ _ You’re heavier than you look. Left you breakfast on the table, took care of the chickens and sheep, but ran away from the cow. I don’t think she likes me.’  _ A sketch of a pottery wheel accompanied the note, annotated in neat cursive. 

I made him the wheel a few days later and I still remember the ecstatic look on his face as he gave it a once-over, then threw his arms around me and hugged me tightly. I didn’t know how to react, so I just waited until he let go. Grinning, he stepped away and exclaimed something about going out to set the wheel up and grab clay from the creek, asking me whether I had spare sheets available to cover the furniture. It was hard to keep up with his boundless energy, but I was glad to see him so overjoyed with something simple I’d done for him. 

Since then, he began making all sorts of pots and bowls, baking them in a furnace we built outside. He spent nights by the fire drinking less, choosing instead to paint pictures and patterns of all different sorts on his creations. Some were inspired by traditional Altmer paintings, while others were Khajiiti claw art or Imperial tapestries. 

After a few years, the fruit trees in the field outside reached maturity and blossomed bearings of fruit perfect for jam and eating. Arol made jam jars and we spent days making jam and wine, adding random fruits to the traditional grape wine to try and add sweeter undertones to the usually bitter taste. 

“Until next harvest!” Arol clapped his hands and grinned at me after surveying all the filled jars and bottles with a satisfied nod. 

“Until net harvest.” I repeatedly tired, sitting down to rest on a tree stump for a moment before we had to clean it all up. 

Arol, however, didn’t sit down and instead began to swiftly pack everything away into boxes. I sighed and tried to heave myself up, but he came over and pushed my chest gently, patting me on the shoulder and saying he’d finish everything off for us. 

I don’t think I’d ever been so grateful to have another person around as I was then. 

With each day that passed, he reminded me more and more of Martica. He’d never look like her or  _ be _ her, but when he joked despite my lack of laughter, or talked despite my lack of response, I remembered her. He had that same, easy smile. 

Even after Arol started living with me, I spoke to myself reasonably often, muttering to myself as I went about the house doing whatever needed to be done. Arol listened, I know he did, although he never mentioned it and only reacted when I was talking to myself right in near him, looking up from his work and smiling indulgently at me, yellow eyes soft as ever. 

I’d been murmuring something about the rabbits outside when Arol spoke. “Why don’t we go for a drink by the creek tonight? It’s a full moon.” 

I shrugged and nodded. 

Arol brightened at the prospect and quickly finished painting the second coating on his recently-baked flower pot, setting it aside to dry on a paint-stained cloth and await its third layer. He made dinner early, having the whole thing ready when I came inside from an uneventful hunt. Excited tension crackled thickly in the air around him as he sat opposite me and wolfed down his dinner as if it was slowly becoming more poisoned the longer it was exposed to air. Fidgeting, he watched me eat, looking like he would strangle me if I wasn’t quick enough. 

Upon finishing, he swept everything up and cleaned with a fervour I'd never seen before, his arms flying around as he cleaned and dried and put away everything. I would have offered me assistance but for the way he was running around, I was fearful of him knocking into me. Given his thin build, an accident like that would only end in his injury. 

After his mad rush around the kitchen, he grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the house. Biting my lip, I forced myself to not erupt into a fit of laughter when Arol grabbed a prepacked basket of wine and other little things from beside the chicken coop. 

Huffing the occasional exaggerated sigh, Arol pulled me along the entire way to the creek, only letting go when we'd reached the oak log at the end of the path. Rushing over, he yanked a large cloth from inside the basket and laid it on the ground. He sat atop it with a satisfied sigh and leaned his back against the log. I came and sat beside him. 

The sun had begun to set and while it wasn't too dark, Arol still found it difficult to gauge how much wine he'd poured into my goblet, filling it much too high. 

We watched in silence as the last few rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, giving way to a dark blue sky dotted with stars and - as Arol had promised - a full moon. Arol was in awe of it, rendered into a blissful quiet as he gazed up in wonder. After a while, he looked to the creek, fascinated with how the water bubbled like molten silver, the rocks and pebbles shining like smooth glass despite their rough texture. It made me happy to see a smile on his thin face. 

"Did you really only ever fall in love once?" He asked me suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. 

"Yes." There was no longer answer. It was simple, straightforward. I'd been in love with one women. Perhaps mildly attracted to others in my youth, that was expected, but only ever in love once. 

"How old were you?" He pressed on with the subject, determined to drag this conversation out. 

It was different, the way he asked questions then. Compared to how he'd asked when we first met, anyway. There was no tease in his voice, no cockiness to indicate that it was all merely a game to him. He was curious, wanted to understand me better for some incomprehensible reason. 

"I'd just reached my twenty-second Summer." I said. 

"And her?" He'd forgotten his drink, staring blankly at the creek. 

"The same. Spring, but." I took a long sip of wine, finally draining my goblet. 

"She brought you here?" He asked. 

"The house was an uncle's." I nodded. 

"What happened?" It was a vague question, one that could easily be brushed aside and ignored, misinterpreted on purpose, but I knew what he was really asking. 

There was no point in deflecting. "She died. It was all very sudden. One moment she laughed, the next she dropped dead." I said, pouring myself another glass of wine in hopes it would ease the darkness in the air, keeping it from pressing in around me and choking me. 

For once, Arol had nothing more to ask or say in response. We sat in silence and watched the bubbles of the creek go by, listening to the muted chittering of bugs in the grass nearby. 

We drank for a while longer and Arol took our drunkenness as an opportunity for a new conversation. 

"Now, I know… I know I said this place would be magical. And I was right." He pointed emphatically at the creek. "But you know what would make it better?" 

I didn't. 

"Frogs!" He hiccuped, then repeated himself more clearly. 

"Frogs?" I snorted, shaking my head in disbelief. 

"Frogs!" He exclaimed excitedly. "Liven the place up a bit. Make… some music, sing some songs!" 

"Frogs don't sing. Fool." I chuckled. 

"Maybe you're just… deaf!" Arol giggled at the prospect, covering his mouth and swatting my knee as if I'd missed some hilarious joke. "And you're the Bosmer here! Aren't you supposed to be… good… with animals? Isn't that what the Bosmer are all about?" 

"Where do you plan on getting these frogs of yours, anyway?" I indulged him. Curse my drunken mind. 

"The river! And some more… water for them, too. Don't want the… funny little bastards drying out now… do we?" Arol blabbered on nonsensically, mumbling something else about skin and tadpoles. 

As we stumbled back home that night, Arol vowed to bring buckets of water and frogs to the creek. The next afternoon when he woke up, I chose not to mention it to him, recalling the time he'd told me drunk words were sober thoughts. Thankfully, he never brought it up again, even when we went back to the creek the next full moon. 

"How many werewolves do you think will try and kill us tonight?" Arol asked, gazing up at the moon. The silver light made his eyes chine a pale gold, though his golden skin turned a shiny, watery yellow. 

"None." I said, not really caring for conversation that night. I think one of the sheep had kicked me in the shin that morning, grumpy I hadn't petted her for as long as usual. 

"Would you kill one, if it came? I don't think I would, especially if it was only a little one." Arol said. 

"A little one?" I raised an eyebrow.  _ No such thing.  _

"Yeah, like a child." He ignored my amused smile. 

"A you wouldn't put it out of its misery?" Years of farmwork and isolation had not lost its effect on me. Some things just had to die. 

"Who are you to judge whether or not it's miserable?" Arol asked, although not in an accusing tone. It was a simple, thought-provoking query, or at least it was in his mind. 

"You'd have to be miserable to enjoy being a werewolf." I said simply, not really caring if the answer hurt his feelings. It was cruel of me, but I learnt the hard way and he would have to as well. 

Arol nodded, tapping his finger on his bottom lip absently." I suppose. But I still think I'd prefer to be looked in the eye and told to do it, not just decide based on my own assumptions." 

I didn't respond. There was nothing that could be said, really. It was a surprisingly thoughtful statement, and honest. His frowning face looked so lonely in that moment and I wanted to apologise, but all the words would fall short of anything I truly wanted to say. A silence stretched between us, like we'd stepped away from each other, just out of reach. 

That gap remained until the next full moon. 

"When you stumbled into my house that one night," I said, unsure of how to start the conversation and pausing, "where… what were you running from?" 

Arol turned to me, a little shocked. "Oh. You know, bandits. And then a sabre cat. The usual, really. I was headed off to the Summerset Isles for some reason, but I got waylaid and then I ended up here." 

"Summerset?" I frowned. 

"I wanted to see an old colleague of mine. Found out he'd died, but I was already on the way and I'd paid a decent bit to go, so I kept walking. Bandits attacked me in the night, I took off and came across a sabre. Kept running until I got here and I prayed you wouldn't kill me." Arol smiled at me fondly. "You patched me up and seemed like a good man, so I stayed." 

Despite me initiating conversation, the gap between us didn't seem to be closing. I pushed on. "Maybe I should have killed you. Would've saved my ears." I joked, but it felt wrong. 

"Put me out of my misery?" Arol asked softly. 

The gap seemed impossible to step over. "I'm sorry for that." 

"There's nothing to be sorry about." Arol waved me off, but his voice sounded hollow. 

"No, I was harsh." I said. "You were upset by it." 

"Was I?" Arol looked puzzled. 

Why was starting a conversation so difficult? Surely I wasn't projecting anything onto him. It was liked a hole was starting to form in the gap between us, like I'd have to fall in and then claw my way back out to finally get to him. 

"I thought you were." I said. 

"So do I." Arol nodded, the puzzled expression gone. "No, I was. I'm not now." 

Maybe the hole wasn't there. I just had to keep pushing. 

"I'm glad I found you." I admitted. 

"I'm glad too. That was the first time someone had helped me in a while." Arol smiled to himself. 

I was so close now. "I've liked having you around." I said, twiddling my thumbs and feeling silly. 

"I knew I'd grow on you." Arol chuckled. 

The gap was gone and we went on as normal. 

There came one final, particularly memorable full moon night. It had become a regular occurrence by then to go out on those 'magical' nights and sit by the crrem with a bottle of wine. We'd been a tad late to get out this time, but that was fine; living in isolation meant we had all the time in the world. 

"Would you ever go back to society?" Arol asked. 

"I don't know." I said. "Do I have reason to?" 

"What if I was sick and dying, and the only way you could help me was to get a cure in town?" Arol suggested. 

"I suppose I would." I said. This was all oddly specific, but that wasn't unusual for him I supposed. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?" 

"That's good to know." Arol laughed. "I don't plan on dying anytime soon, so you don't have to worry." 

I liked Arol's smile. It made his whole face light up, his lips stretching back to reveal a perfect set of pearly white teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners as even the pupils themselves danced with a mirthful light. A goodness vibrated from his throat when he laughed and it was all very infectious, holding listeners hostage until they too felt good about the world. 

Despite his reassurances of not wanting to die and his big silly grin, I didn't feel very comforted. Martica had died suddenly and she'd never planned on it. The animals I hunted and ate on a daily basis had no plans of dying either, yet Arkay and Hircine and all the rest of the gods had plans, games they wanted to play and we as mortals had to go along with it all, whether we believed in their nonsense or not. 

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Arol asked, all traces of his smile gone and a serious look on his face, voice soft and gentle with sympathy. 

I nodded. 

"You really were in love with her." Arol's voice carried a wistfulness I'd never heard before. 

"Have you?" I asked. 

"Have I what? Been in love?" Arol asked, expression guarded. 

It was the first time I'd ever seen him so uneasy, so unwilling to offer even a facial indication of his feelings. Usually he spoke of things with a carel freedom, even telling me about horrible events with an overbearing fondness and a smile traces across his lips. Now, however, his features gave nothing away. 

"I haven't. Well, once." Arol sighed and fell silent. 

"Once?" I prompted him. He'd asked enough questions about my personal life. It wouldn't hurt to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

"It wasn't reciprocated." Arol smiled at me sadly. "I didn't know what I was expecting, really." 

"A man, or a woman?" I asked, vaguely remembering a few tales of his that involved drunken nights spent with men. 

"Actually, I tell a lie. Of course, I've fallen in love with every woman I've slept with, as a rule." He was stalling, but I let him. "They are very beautiful creatures, after all. I'm not even sure why males are allowed to exist beside them sometimes, let alone in some countries where they  _ control _ them!" 

I only nodded along to his rambling, not wanting to say something and give him reason to go further off-track. 

"But, I… I never actually fell in love with any of them properly. I could just get up and leave, you know. One day, I met this man, and I really shouldn't have fallen in love with him, but I did." Arol smiled and shook his head, as if contemplating the idea and deciding it was just a silly little thing. "He was just so kind to me in his own little way and I'd never met anyone like him. He taught me a lot. I couldn't drag myself away from him, but he was in love with another woman." 

"And now?" I asked. "You ever get over him?" 

"No, he was something special." Arol sighed, his body going completely still. 

We were silent for a while. The moon shone brightly in the sky, although I could tell it was growing especially late, possibly even coming to midnight. 

Arol shivered. "Are you cold?" He asked. 

"No. We should head home." I said. The air was a little botey, but it was only nipping at the very tips of my ears. 

"I want to stay a little longer." Arol scooted over so that he sat right beside me and pulled a blanket out of our little picnic basket, draping it over himself with his back leaned against our log. 

"I never said I was warm." I murmured teasingly. 

Arol chuckled and tugged the blanket over me, engulfing both of us in it's warmth. After a few minutes, Arol tilted his head sideways to rest on my shoulder, his white hair tickling my arm. He closed his eyes and looked comfortable, so I didn't dare move, scarcely wanting to breathe in fear I'd disturb his rest. For all the worries I had, it was comfortable. Secure. 

His breathing became deep and even with sleep. At this, my heart swelled with warmth and contentment; he felt he could depend on me, he trusted me. 

I turned a little, wrapping my arms around his small shoulders and let his head rest on my collarbone with his hair tickling the skin of my neck. 

I think that was when I fell in love with him. The moment I thought of it, I denied it, but deep down I knew I'd truly fallen for the second time in my life. 

And it didn't feel like a bad thing. 

Years passed, and those turned into decades. There were times when Arol would be cooking or painting or whatever else he did and I'd have to fight down the urge to grab him. I don't know what I would have done if I did. Kissed him, maybe? Just embraced him? It didn't matter, I wasn't going to let myself do that to him. 

He wasn't Martica, but that was fine. Originally, I didn't think it would be. His smile was enough to keep me wanting him, despite all the other differences and similarities and details that made me want him so badly I couldn't think properly some days, although I kept it all to myself and let him stay free of me. He was just a man, a man who I'd taken decades to fall for and he wouldn't even want me back, especially not after all this time. It would be stupid to expect such a thing, I'd made it obvious how quickly I'd fallen for Martica, why should he have been different? 

For all their contrasts, he died the same way she did. One minute, he was laughing himself silly and the next he dropped dead. 

I buried him by the log at the creek. I still went there every full moon, sat right near his unmarked grave and pretended he still sat there with me, listening to my dull drawl with an indulgent smile on his face, his eyes warmer than the Sun. Sometimes Martica would join us, coming to sit on the log behind me and play with my hair. 

My bones ache with weariness these days. The full moon came last night, and, knowing it would be my last, I bid Arol one final farewell. I heard his laughter in the wind as I hobbled back home. 

It was foolish, looking back on it all. Arol had been in love with me and I'd been too ignorant to notice. Just like me not realising my own love for him sooner, and then not telling him of it. I miss so much of him now, with his little wooden figures or clay flower pots all around the house. I miss the way I could fall asleep in my armchair and wake up the next morning in my warm bed. I miss his smile the most because even on my terrible, horrible worst days, it gave me a reason to be happy. 

Today has been my last day to walk this earth. I released the chickens into the wild, for the cow and sheep had died long ago. I came into the home one final time and chuckled at the sight of the brown cow skin rug by the door. 

I never did get those bloodstains out of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A homoerotic journey with a sad ending? Yes. Please. 
> 
> This was inspired by the "living with Thor" tumblr post (just look 'living with Thor tumblr' up on google images, it's the picture with John Mulaney at the bottom and a wall of text, you won't be disappointed) and I think it turned out fantastically depressing! I'm really sorry to anyone who had their hopes up, but yeah... I don't roll that way. 
> 
> Poor Arol and Curem... and a big RIP to my word counter, this bad boy was long as hell. That's part of the reason it took so long to post, but it was also due to the fact that my romantic soul couldn't help but write this out by hand first, then type it up. 
> 
> Just so you guys know (yes, I'm fully aware I haven't even finished my OTHER project yet) I'm writing a book called 'Soldier', which is just a series of diary entries from an unnamed soldier, but uh... well let's just say it won't be hard to figure out who's writing it. Really, this series will just be practice for me, as I'm trying to write it in a different, more 'romantic' voice, as well as profile this certain... character for a future work. If you want to give it a read and leave feedback, feel free to! Other than that, hope you continue to enjoy this book of one-shots (and two, or three-shots).


	15. A Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter sent to High Rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came pretty quick because I felt bad about how long it took me to update the last one shot. So yeah, this was just a short little thing in between the next proper update.

Dear Aunty, 

Solitude is everything we’d thought it would be! Now, I know you’re much more interested in news of the city itself, but I feel as though I must tell you at least a few things about the boat trip here, just so you know what to expect when you come here for the Summer! 

The boat trip was lovely. The weather on the way was not bad at all and we didn’t even see one storm the entire two weeks! I suppose all those visits to the Temple of Kynareth were worth their while. Each day was as lovely and sunny as the last and falling asleep to the gentle rocking of waves at night was an absolute treat. The food given to all the passengers was lovely, even if it got a little bland and repetitive toward the end of the trip. 

While on the boat, I met the most charming mer. His name was Hilosi, a Bosmer from all the way in Valenwood! He was very kind to me during the entire trip and I learnt he was also staying in Solitude for a few months. He told me that he comes from a wealthy family and that he was sent to Solitude to do business with the Jarl herself! We spent much time together while on the ship and he has invited me to spend time with him in the Blue Palace. After I have gotten settled in my little apartment and the city, I certainly plan on meeting him. 

Speaking of the apartment, it’s gorgeous! I’ve been told by a few locals it is a slightly dangerous part of town, so I’ve bought myself a knife and travel with only a little money. The guards around the city are very reliable, however, so I don’t believe I’ll face too much trouble while here. A lovely woman helped me get settled into the apartment and showed me around the city a little, and I just can’t wait for when you come here! 

The apartment is positively charming. It’s upstairs from the bakery, like we discussed, and the air always smells like fresh bread and pastries. I sit down there in the morning and have breakfast with the baker’s wife, Flarella. She’s been ever so kind to me since I got here and has said that I should play my lute at a local tavern called the Winking Skeever. It sounds a little rough, but she assured me it was an honourable establishment, so I might go there for dinner tomorrow night. 

Because we sailed so smoothly, the boat arrived a few days earlier than it was supposed to. I learnt that the Bards College will have auditions open next week, so I’ll write to you about how it goes then. A few people have suggested to me already that I should go, or have asked me if I’m already in attendance so I believe I will have a good chance of getting in! Oh, this is all so very exciting, I only wish you were here to explore it all with me! 

Please tell my friends that I have arrived to Solitude safely, won’t you? I miss them all so dearly. 

Wish me luck for my auditions! All my love, 

Lineal 


	16. Sworn to Death (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soldier is sent on a tour he's not sure he can complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a warning for this chapter in the author's notes at the end (this is so I don't spoil content for other readers unintentionally, you can choose to spoil it if you like)

“What kind of camp is this?” Rikard Thundercry asked, jabbing his finger down on the drawing of Hag’s End, brutish face sneering. 

“An easy one, hopefully.” Jonlin joked. A few men laughed, but stopped abruptly when Rikard shot them a filthy glare. 

General Sellus-Forellus gave Jonlin a wink that Rikard - thankfully - didn’t see. She became serious when he turned to face her, expectant and waiting for her answer. “Last our scouts checked, it wasn’t very populated. Given the recent movements of the Forsworn, however, this seems as though it is subject to change. 

“Another scout group will travel out tomorrow and your group will follow it four days from now. You’ll leave around midday and meet the scouts halfway there. If the scouts don’t arrive, you are to wait at least a day, then travel back and report. 

“I would recommend preparing for a full-population attack. I understand the distress this may cause amongst you all, but unfortunately we cannot avoid such a situation. Hag’s End has become a popular location of congregation for the Forsworn. I will remind you all that in the possibly difficult time after clearing such a camp, the Temple of Dibella offer their counselling services to any soldiers in need. Some of you may think that I don’t understand, because I am a woman, but I’ll tell you, I know better than many of you what it is to feel as though I cannot reach out for help.” 

The men shuffled uncomfortably, stress evident. A full-population attack meant killing children. 

“I wish you all the best of luck while on this tour. The people of Markarth will keep you in their prayers.” General Sellus-Forellus saluted the men, giving them a firm nod and grim smile when they repeated the action back. 

They all began to file out of the room, chattering nervously to one another and leaving Jonlin alone with General Sellus-Forellus. 

“General.” Jonlin held out his hand to her. 

She grabbed it and shook it. “Jonlin. At ease, soldier.” 

‘At ease’ for Jonlin meant pushing maps aside and sitting up on the table, legs swinging merrily like a child. 

“So, you’re not coming with us. Again.” Jonlin stated, gazing up at the tapestries on the wall as the General busied herself with putting the maps away carefully. 

“Not after my promotion, no.” She muttered as she sorted through the maps, filing them in the correct order and cursing when she dropped one. “I have to be here with the Jarl, you know that.” 

Jonlin hummed in acknowledgement. “I know, I know. I’m going to miss having you around, that’s all. All, ‘Captain this’, ‘Captain that’. You know.” 

“Yes, well, now it’s ‘General this’, ‘General that’ to you.” She mimicked him with a smirk. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you miserable sod.” 

“I’ll look at you how I like. As long as there’s nothing more than cold admiration in my gaze.” Jonlin laughed at the General’s raised eyebrow. They’d been friends for years, now it was just a running joke that Jonlin would get chided by higher-ups for his casual attitude around her. 

“You’d better not be looking at me with anything more.” She huffed theatrically, then came and sat beside him, though her legs were still. 

Jonlin frowned. “I’ll have to say goodbye to my little ones again. And Cassie.” 

“I’ll look after them for you, don’t worry.” The General gave his shoulder a firm pat. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to kill those Forsworn children with them on my mind.” Jonlin confessed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily, leaning back on his arm. His legs went still as he stretched out his back with a satisfying pop. 

“You’ll have to.” The General said. “Don’t want them to get the jump on you. You’re killing their parents, remember? They won’t be very happy with you after that and the gods know those little savages will rip your eyes out if you give ‘em half a chance.” 

Her right eye told the story, but Jonlin forced himself not to look over at her. She was more than a war story. She was a girl he’d grown up with, someone who his parents (and hers) had always joked he would marry, the first person he told about his impending marriage to his wife, Cassandra. She’d been with him his entire life and yet one of the only things he could remember about her was how she lost that  _ damn  _ eye. 

It had been a sunny, beautiful day, he remembered that. One that he had been wishing to spend with his wife and children, but instead got shipped out on a Forsworn hunt. General Sellus-Forellus had only been a recently-promoted Captain back then, leading her first unit of soldiers into a battle for a military camp. 

When they got there, however, they found they had been misinformed. It was a lucky thing they arrived at what appeared to be lunch time, as they would have been vastly outnumbered and quickly discovered. 

No, what they had been told was a military camp was actually a full-population camp, filled with pregnant women and children. Sellus-Forellus had been quick and clever about it all, organising a raid within only a few minutes, not sparing a single word or moment and instructing her troops with a precise and meticulous mind only possessed by very few. They spread quickly, each soldier taking their place and readying their weapons, waiting to spring the trap. 

It all went perfectly, up until it didn’t. The Forsworn soldiers (if they could even be called such a thing) were slaughtered quickly, leaving only civilians. They quickly dispatched all the adults, leaving only a handful of young children. 

One of the men made the mistake of taking the child’s young age as a sign of safety. He picked her up - she had probably only seen barely her fourth Summer - and held her in his arms, murmuring some useless reassurances to the silent young thing. One thing he certainly didn’t count on was the child pulling a knife from her pocket and slamming the blade into his neck. 

If it hadn’t been for the barbed blade, maybe he would’ve survived the encounter. Of course, given that the child was so young, she didn’t manage to hurt him too badly with the initial stab, but when she ripped the blade out, it tore his skin with it and blood sprayed over the both of them. The girl didn’t even flinch, drawing her arm back and stabbing him viciously again. It seemed the man couldn’t drop her in his panic, he just squeezed her tightly as if it would strangle her. 

Captain Sellus-Forellus leapt out of nowhere. She couldn’t grab the girl and pull her away, though she also couldn’t kill her outright, as she would injure her own man. Stepping closer, she raised her sword and waited, watching the flurry of movements from the struggling pair with a sharp and calculating gaze, face expressionless. 

She lunged and kicked her soldier in the stomach harshly, driving her sword through the little girl’s neck at the same time, While the soldier let go of the girl and stumbled away, the girl turned to eye the Captain and with one last, defiant scream, threw her knife. 

It was a lucky shot. The Captain swore as it went through her eye and staggered away, clutching at her bloodied face as if trying to stem the red flow leaking out of her socket. The knife bounced around precariously and so she ripped it out with a scream, stuffing her hand down over the gaping hole. 

Jonlin had helped carry her home on the stretcher. He’d held her hand the whole way back, sat by her side for days on end as she drifted in and out of consciousness, telling her the news of her blindness and embracing her when she wept. 

If something like that happened again, Jonlin wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay in service. 

Hopefully this mission would only be a military clearance. 

“I have to go and visit the Jarl in court.” The General pushed herself off the table. 

“Sounds delightful.” Jonlin smirked, but his heart wasn’t in it. 

The General’s eyes softened. “Good luck. Fight well.” 

They shook hands and she went off to go and see the Jarl. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. 

He left the Understone Keep and let his feet carry him along through the streets of Markarth, smiling as he passed friends and strangers. Trudging up the stairs of Irdthangkuul, he realised he was almost home. Each step he took felt heavier. Cassie wouldn’t want to hear his apologies and she’d insist it was all fine, but he knew deep down she was going to be upset by the news of him leaving. 

“Da?” Horon, his youngest son and second youngest child, ran to him and embraced his torso. 

“Hello there.” Jonlin knelt down and pulled him close, kissing his temple. “Is everyone home?” 

The boy nodded. “Ma’s in the kitchen with Aliks, Jesla is writing in her room and Lari is tending the garden.” 

“And you’re slacking off?” Jonlin teased him, poking him in the belly. 

“I finished my schoolwork!” Horon said indignantly. “Ma told me I could go out and play.” 

“Oh, alright. Wouldn’t want to cross your mother now, would I? Here.” Jonlin winked and handed him a few septims. 

“Thanks, Da!” Horon kissed his cheek and ran off down the street. 

The house was warm when he stepped inside and he could hear all kinds of clattering coming from inside the kitchen. He popped his head into the room of Jesla, his eldest, along the way, greeting her quietly with a tap of his foot on the floor. She looked up from her parchment and smiled, nodding in acknowledgement of his presence. 

He could spy Lari, the youngest, sitting in the garden and carefully pruning the roses, murmuring to herself as she snipped away and dropped the clippings into a bucket. He’d have to help her carry all the clippings later, as it was difficult work for only one person to do and especially for one as young as her. 

Jonlin stood by the doorway of the kitchen with a smile, watching as his wife and second oldest child, Aliks, chopped up vegetables. Occasionally, Cassandra would sternly remind Aliks to curl his fingers up when he chopped the potatoes, as it would stop him from slicing his fingers off. He followed her orders obediently, but always drifted back to the incorrect positioning. 

Jonlin waited until Aliks had finished cutting and put the knife down before he came into the room with a smile. Cassandra beamed at the sight of him, putting down her own knife and wrapping her arms around his neck tightly, pressing her lips to his. She was warm in his arms and his heart ached terribly at the thought of his departure in only four days time. When she pulled away from him, however, he made sure to keep a soft smile on his lips, not wanting to worry her so early in the day. 

Aliks waved to Jonlin from across the kitchen table and Jonlin nodded back, greeting him verbally rather than physically. His boy was a young teen after all, and certainly didn’t like being touched. Rather than chide him, Jonlin let him be. He remembered being the same when he was a boy, shying away from his mother’s tender kisses and his father’s overbearing embraces. Also, it didn’t seem fair to allow his other children to have their little quirks and single Aliks out. 

“How was work today?” Jonlin asked Cassandra, leaning on the kitchen table and watching as she sliced through a batch of leeks with a steady hand. 

“Oh, the same as ever.” Cassandra’s voice lilted noncommittally. 

“I see how it is then,” Jonlin sighed theatrically, “only your friends get to hear all the latest gossip. Forget your poor old husband, slaving away for the most boring people in Tamriel.” 

Cassandra laughed. “Hush, now. There is no gossip, as far as they’re concerned.” 

“I suppose I’ll just have to do my own digging, then.” Jonlin said, turning his nose up into the air and crossing his arms over. 

“Maybe.” Cassandra shrugged, though a smile still ghosted her lips. 

“Alright. I should go and see if Lari needs help in the garden.” Jonlin announced as he walked over to the back door, opening it and stepping outside. 

Childish singing reached his ears and he smiled at the sound of his little girl crooning to the plants as she cared for them. 

He’d taught her to garden years ago, had guided her little hands with his own large ones as he showed her to weed and water, and, when she got a little older, to prune and maintain. One lesson she never forgot, apparently, was when he taught her that plants liked to be spoken to and that positive reassurance made them grow better. She took it as an opportunity to sing and as the years went on her voice had only grown stronger and more beautiful, just like the plants it gave life to. 

Not stopping, she regarded him with big blue eyes and smiled as she sang. She’d only just seen her seventh Autumn two weeks past, but she seemed older. Perhaps it was the close resemblance she held to her mother, with her long brown hair and small nose. She certainly took on the Imperial blood, unlike her siblings, who took after their Nord father, with their grey eyes and broad noses. 

Lari finished her song. “Look, Pa, do you see the blossoms?” She pointed a delicate, although calloused finger at one of the little budding blossoms in the rose bush. 

“I certainly do.” Jonlin came over to stand beside her, leaning in close to look. "How long before it's a full flower?" 

"This one? A week. The rest, I think about two." She wandered between the bushes, turning back to look at him with a sheepish smile. "I hope it's sooner, though." 

They spent a while after that walking around the garden as Lari pointed things out to him excitedly, showcasing all the work she'd done while he was at work. His heart swelled with fondness for his little girl, but she was going up too fast. She was his last one, the youngest of his babies and he'd try to hold on for that as long as he possibly could. 

He helped her carry her plant clippings to their composting pit and watched as she turned it all by herself. 

She really was growing up. 

He thought of Jesla, who was also beginning to grow up. A few short weeks ago, she was commissioned by publishers in Solitude to write an adventure story. Jonlin’s heart had swelled with pride when she announced it, but it also sank a little at the thought she was truly a grown young woman now, his oldest about to leave the nest and take flight. He worried for her, he worried for all of them, although she couldn’t speak and he feared it would only disadvantage her later in life. She’d already had children of her age pick on her, which of course she’d learnt to ignore and disregard, but Jonlin couldn’t help himself. He worried and stressed and pulled his heir out over thoughts of her being rejected, even if he knew it was foolish, that she was clever and quick to learn. 

Aliks had taken to cooking with his mother over the years and enjoyed it immensely. He was sweet on a girl from a street over and they planned on getting married in a few years, Aliks wanting to work as a chef at the inn her father owned. It was good and Jonlin was glad his son had such plans, but young love could be so fickle sometimes and he wasn’t sure his dear child would love this girl forever. That was a lesson Aliks would have to learn on his own, unfortunately. 

Horon hadn’t decided what to do with himself yet, but Jonlin knew the boy liked to wrestle around with his friends and make mischief, claiming he wanted to be a champion fighter. He was a funny little character, Horon, stubborn and kind-hearted, with wide grey eyes that asked millions of questions at once without a hint of restraint. He fell in love easily and with anyone he met, though he confided in his father once that he planned on marrying another boy who lived on the other side of the city. Jonlin had smiled at the boy’s plans; he was the same as Jonlin when he was a boy. He’d thought himself in love with a girl, then met a different girl and another after that. Life went on, he met Cassandra. Horon would learn that soon, probably through a broken heart. He was a fighter, though, he’d push through, find someone else to love. 

Lari was still so young. Too young to make her mind up for her future just yet, even if she did seem to have a strong passion for gardening. She was so little and fragile, but if she was anything like her mother, she’d grow tough and humorous, with a sharp mind and easy friendliness. She would grow up in her own time. 

Then, of course, there was Cassandra, the love of his life. They’d met as young adults at a festival and had quickly become infatuated with each other. She swept him off his feet when they met with her charm and intelligence, making him fall in love with her almost immediately, letting her lead him on like a lost dog. After a few weeks of his hopeless flirting she took him on a date and soon they were planning on getting married and buying a home for themselves. She got a job working for the Silver-Bloods as a bookkeeper of sorts and he joined the Army, knowing his best friend had already done so and that due to the Forsworn uprisings, they were desperate for new recruits. 

Even though they’d been married for many years, Jonlin still couldn’t believe how brilliant Cassandra was. She’d work half a day, go out and help the homeless, then come back home to look after the children until Jonlin could finally get out of work. He tried to weasel out of it as often as possible and get out early or take days off, telling Cassandra to go and take some time for herself. She always thanked him, but he figured it was the least he could do, given how much she gave him and their family on a daily basis. 

They all sat down to dinner and sat for an hour eating and chatting about some nonsense that happened during the day. Jonlin tried to act as if he didn’t have terrible news, smiling and laughing along with the rest of the family at one of Horon’s outbursts or Lari’s quips. 

Cassandra, however, had noticed. She didn’t mention it until they went to bed that night. 

“So, what’s been going on with you, hm?” She asked, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re not going to like it.” Jonlin sighed, settling under the covers of the bed beside her. 

“Do I ever?” Cassandra smirked at him. 

“I’m assigned to a Forsworn tour. We leave in four days.” Jonlin explained. 

Cassandra paused, nodded and sighed. “You were right about me not liking it.” 

“I’m sorry.” Jonlin took her hand in his, hanging his head. 

“It’s not your fault, love. It just is what it is.” Cassandra patted his hand, shuffling over to sit closer to him. 

“We’ll have to tell the children.” Jonlin said miserably. 

“The day before. They shouldn’t be worrying.” Cassandra’s tone was firm, like she was trying to reassure both him and herself. 

“Of course.” Jonlin murmured. 

“Come here, darling.” Cassandra beckoned to him. He laid down, head in her lap and arms hugging her legs loosely. She stroked his hair softly, her eyes knowing and sad. “I know how hard you’re trying.” 

“It’s a full-population clear, they’re thinking.” Jonlin muttered. 

“It will be fine.” Cassandra tucked his hair behind his ear. 

“There will be children, Cassie. Ones just like our precious babies.” Jonlin pressed his face into her thigh, feeling choked and vulnerable. 

Cassandra rested her hand on his neck and rubbed the skin with her thumb in a comforting way, repetitive and calming. “They’re not like our own, love. You know that. You just have to… remove yourself from the situation. Separate our children from theirs.” 

“I can’t.” Jonlin could feel tears coming to his eyes. 

“You have to. Think: after this, you’ll have finished your service!” Cassandra shook his shoulder gently in encouragement. “You can get a job with me, or stay home with the children. I’m sure we’ve enough money to live comfortably without you working. Jesla will be leaving home soon, anyway.” 

“I don’t want to think about that.” Jonlin chuckled softly, wiping away his tears. Cassandra was right. 

“I don’t either. It seemed only yesterday she was a wee babe in our arms.” Cassandra sighed wistfully. “They were so much cuter back when they were little, eh?” 

“Now they just take all our food.” Jonlin grinned. 

“And money. And romance, and patience, and all the rest.” Cassandra smiled back at him. 

“But it’s worth it.” Jonlin murmured. 

“Of course.” Cassandra nodded. “Most of the time.” 

Jonlin wrapped his arms around Cassandra’s waist as she told him a story about a client that came to see her at work. As he pressed his head into her stomach, he thought of how grateful he was for all the things she did, the way she kept him in line and strong with only a few words of encouragement and a kind smile. 

He was going to do whatever it took to return home to her after the tour. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is rather gory and has graphic depictions of violence. Please read at your own discretion. 
> 
> Jonlin is a sweetheart. I just had an idea pop into my head about the Forsworn and decided to write. I feel like the militant side of the Forsworn should be explored more, given the political stuff is all very stupid and complicated (as all politics are) but it was always weird that only the player takes out camps full of warriors, so I wanted to explore this idea that they send out units of soldiers and potentially wipe-out civilians as well.


	17. 7000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning in the bottom notes. 
> 
> So, I'm doing my second play-through of Skyrim (I was very thorough the first time, okay?) and I was speaking to Jarl Balgruuf... I completely forgot he went to High Hrothgar. 
> 
> Needless to say, I wondered if he met Ulfric there and... this happened.

It had been a long carriage ride from Whiterun to Ivarstead and Balgruuf was tired. Ivarstead was beautiful, of course it was, being in the countryside at the bottom of a mountain, though Balgruuf found himself too occupied with thoughts of sleep to take it all in. 

Gazing at the mountain, he felt so far from home. It was as if he had travelled to a whole other country, not just through the mountain pass to a little town. Nothing was familiar to him; the people had different faces, there was a lack of bustle, it was all so quiet and peaceful. Whiterun could never be this way, as even in the dead of night there was activity. 

The carriage driver, Lefar, sang as he flicked the reins of the horses. He’d been singing for days and was to make sure Balgruuf got to Ivarstead safely, then stay until Balgruuf wished to leave for home again. He was a kind young man, only a few years older than Balgruuf, and had offered his passenger sweets and comfort items the entire trip. Over the ride, there were times where he had stopped to point things out to Balgruuf, telling him stories of heroes that travelled through the area. 

“Wee bit nervous, are we lad?” Lefar asked as they entered the town. His tone was soft and sympathetic, no traces of teasing in it. 

“I suppose.” Balgruuf tried to shrug his worries away. It didn’t work very well. 

“‘S’okay if y’are. Them bloody Frost Trolls pack a mean feckin’ swipe, give ‘em ‘alf a chance. Don’ worry though, they’ll be no match for you, lad.” Lefar flashed him a big, toothy grin. “Aye, I reckon they’ll be more scared o’ you than you are o’ them.” 

“Are they really as strong as people say they are?” Balgruuf asked. 

“I’ve slain a few in my time. To be honest, they’re bad, but not  _ that  _ bad, ya know? Second you get a bit o’ fire on ‘em, the big bastards are done.” Lefar said. 

“I’ve got a flame enchantment on my sword.” Balgruuf said. “And Soul Gems.” 

“You’ll be ‘right then. Don’ worry ‘bout a thing.” Lefar waved him off vaguely and smiled at him. “A’right, lad, this is where I leave you. I’ll be down stayin’ at that house over there, alrigh’? My sister’s place. Come by there when you’re ready to go ‘ome and take as long as you need, a’righ’?” 

Balgruuf nodded. “Alright.” He stood, then jumped down onto the ground. 

“To be honest, if you could gimme like two weeks at my sister’s, I’d marry ya. I haven’ seen her in feckin’ ages.” Lefar winked. “Jus’ a thought, if ya wanted to stay at the inn a couple nights or somethin’.” 

“I’m sure I could make it so that mountain takes a few extra days to climb. Maybe there’s a few more Trolls than we originally thought, or bears.” Balgruuf shrugged nonchalantly, but smirked at Lefar to let him know he was in on the conspiracy. He grabbed his bags down from the carriage. 

“Oh, yeah. Lots and lots o’ trolls.” Lefar waved to Balgruuf as he flicked the reins of his carriage and trundled down the road. 

Balgruuf rented a room at the local inn and crashed into the bed. Of course, the moment his head hit the pillow, he found himself feeling jittery and excited, unable to fall asleep straight away. It felt like hours before he finally drifted off. 

\---

After a hasty breakfast, Balgruuf grabbed his travelling bag and set off toward the edge of town. The roads were empty, perhaps a little too early in the morning for people to be wandering, so he could walk down the middle without worrying about being in anyone's way. Guards nodded to him as he passed. Unlike the ones in Whiterun, they spoke to him, some even making idle threats as if he was there to commit crimes. He couldn’t imagine what would be worth stealing in such a sleepy town, but he didn’t argue, simply keeping his head down and hoping no other guards confronted him. 

The mountain loomed ahead of him as he turned down the road that led to it. He could already see the first few stone steps built into its side, hundreds of them snaking up into the distance, unseen behind rocks and clouds. 

Feeling intimidated by the vastness of the mountain, Balgruuf decided to focus on the little things instead. There was a bridge ahead, spanning over a rushing creek. Salmon leapt gracefully out of the water and sailed over boulders, skipping back into the water on the other side and disappearing into the bubbling depths. As he crossed, the ground rumbled and shook beneath his feet. He walked quickly and prayed to the gods he did not get swept away by the river before his journey could even properly begin. 

The curving path to the mountain's stairs was beaten in from years of use, the dirt a dark brown in some particularly hard-trodden parts. Not only were there thousands of steps in the mountainside, but thousands of people would have climbed them, leaving prayers and offerings along the way in a similar manner to the way Balgruuf planned to. 

Gazing up at the mountain and gulping, Balgruuf adjusted his sword at his hip, making it so he could unsheathe it quickly and easily if he was attacked. Creeping toward the stairs, he took a deep breath and stepped up, contemplating the feeling of stone beneath his foot. One of seven thousand steps. 

Each set of steps felt distinctly different from the last, even though they were all made of the same stone. He could hear the whispers of stories from the past in the air, the tongues of ghosts blowing his hair gently in the wind. 

At the first statue, Balgruuf dropped to his knees, clutching a set of beads in his fingers. He murmured several old Nord prayers, kissing each bead with every different prayer and, when he was finished, he looped the beads around his knuckles and tapped his fist over his heart. Leaving a few septims at the foot of the statue, Balgruuf nodded and stepped away. 

He repeated that same set of prayers at each statue, always remembering to leave an offering after. As he climbed higher, the temperature of the air dropped and soon he was trudging through both snow and stone, careful to not step on any bits that looked loose, or make too much noise. While there had never been reports of an avalanche, his father had told him to be careful anyway, just in case the gods were in a bad humour. 

It didn't seem as though he was getting closer to the top, but he carried on walking, not even bothering to try and gather his surroundings. The path would have to be enough to guide him. 

At one point, his journey was interrupted by a Frost Troll. Luckily, he spotted it in the snow as it waved its arms around and roared, beating its chest. When it noticed Balgruuf, it roared again and charged, loping on all fours and gnashing its horrible teeth. Balgruuf unsheathed his sword and readied himself, standing his ground. Sticking his elbows out and spreading his legs, he made himself appear much larger, hoping to intimidate the Frost Troll, or throw it off at least. 

It seemed to do the trick, as the Troll stopped short a few metres from him, regarding him with three large black eyes. Suddenly, the beast raised one of its muscular arms and swung it down, lunging for Balgruuf's throat. He quickly stepped out of the way, arcing his sword around himself and making contact with the Troll's fur. Acrid smoke wafted through the air as the fur sparked with fire and the Troll yelped, withdrawing and regarding him again. 

Balgruuf took the wariness as an opportunity to dive forward and slash his sword across the Troll’s chest, setting it alight. The beast howled and clawed at its chest, gnashing its teeth. As its ghastly maw opened, Balgruuf jerked his sword up, driving it through the roof of its mouth and up, tearing through the inside. Smoke funneled from the Troll’s mouth and nostrils as it was set on fire, the beast howling, waving its large arms frantically and knocking Balgruuf to the ground as it ripped open his arm. After a few seconds of whining and gasping, the beast choked and collapsed on its knees, falling forward when it finally died and driving the sword right through its thick skull. 

Staggering to his feet, Balgruuf stumbled over to the creature and flipped it over, ignoring the searing pain of his arm. He tried to yank the sword out, but it seemed embedded in the bone of the beast, not even budging as he tugged. Balgruuf took a step back and assessed possible ways to retrieve his sword. 

Looking at his thick, steel-bottom boots, he came up with a plan. He stood hesitantly beside the head of the Troll, lifted his foot slowly, then, with a curse and a grunt, brought his foot down as forcefully as he could, stomping on the side of the creature’s head. Squelching, squishing and cracking sounds came as his foot went through the skull, snapping through and pulverising anything inside. Pain jolted through his leg at the sheer force his foot was met with, but he lifted his foot out and wiped it on the cold snowy ground, feeling sick at the sight of all the blood and gunk slipping off. The sight of the Troll itself was significantly worse and Balgruuf fought down the bile rising in his throat as he picked through the gore to grab his buried sword. It still hissed and sputtered with heat, nestled in the blackened brain-matter of the Troll. The air around it smelt sweet, but skewed with the muskiness of the smoke, a foul combination that made Balgruuf’s stomach flip and turn like a dancer at a festival. 

After a few minutes of scrabbling and squelching around, Balgruuf managed to retrieve his bloodied sword, cleaning it with thick white cloth, though it soon turned black with charred bits and dried blood. He sheathed it back into his belt, dressed the wound on his arm as best he could and took a few deep breaths. A break was all he needed before he pressed on, climbing the stairs and praying at the statues, even ones buried in piles of snow. 

Legs feeling weak and mind weary, Balgruuf stumbled up the final flights of stairs, pushing through the bitter wind and relentless snow, hoping that no Trolls would come to snap him up in his tired state. The gods, apparently, seemed pleased with his offering and prayers, deciding to work on his side and allow him to walk in blissful isolation. 

High Hrothgar sat just beyond the last flight of stairs, its dark grey bricks heavily contrasting the white surroundings. Balgruuf smiled deliriously at the sight of it, staggering up to the pile of offerings at the entrance and collapsing beside a sack of what smelt like potatoes. Lying on his back, he stared up at the sky, laughing as delicate snowflakes fell down around him, settling softly in his hair and resting on his exposed skin. 

An overwhelming feeling of safety came to him in that moment, like he finally saw true peace in the world and understood it. He grinned at the clouds hanging above him and murmured one last thanks to the gods, before closing his eyes and falling fast asleep. 

\---

He woke in a comfortable bed, feeling warm and refreshed. Sitting up, he noticed the stone walls around him and the pile of furs and blankets draped over him. Large flower pots had batches of snowberries growing inside, their red blooms adding a splash of colour to the place, as well as a sweet fragrance. His arm had been taken care of, the hasty bandages he’d wound while travelling gone and replaced with fresh, deliberate and tidy ones. 

Legs aching, Balgruuf stood up from his bed and winced, stretching his legs and back as well as he was able before it grew too painful. Bones popping and sliding, he sighed contently. 

There were a few other beds lined along the walls in a similar fashion to his own, each with an end table that had healing potions and bandages set upon it. Some had other things like books and knick knacks lying around, making Balgruuf wonder if this was an infirmary set up for pilgrims like himself. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” A deep voice came from behind Balgruuf, so he whipped around. 

“Yes. I am.” Balgruuf answered, feeling incredibly foolish. 

The man in front of him was young, probably only a few years older than himself. He was tall, very tall, similar in his thin stature and build to that of a typical Altmer. His obviously-Nord facial features gave him away, however, as well as his pale white skin. 

“I’m Balgruuf. I’ve come on a pilgrimage from Whiterun.” Balgruuf held his hand out to the tall Nord. 

“Oh. Balgruuf, Jarl Hinegar’s son?” The Nord’s eyebrows quirked with interest. 

“Yes.” Balgruuf nodded. 

The Nord shook Balgruuf’s hand firmly. “I’m Ulfric.” 

The name seemed familiar, but Balgruuf couldn’t decide where he’d heard it. 

“Did your father send you here?” Ulfric asked. “Has something happened?” 

“No, no. Well, yes, he did send me here, but no, nothing happened.” Balgruuf explained. 

“You’ve come to pray to Kyne, then? Make your offerings at the statues?” Ulfric asked. 

“Get into a few fights with Frost Trolls along the way. You know, standard pilgrim things.” Balgruuf smiled good-naturedly at him and winked. 

“That’s where the cut on your arm came from?” Ulfric gestured to the wound, not even acknowledging the joke with a smile. A serious man, then. 

“I didn’t step out of the way quick enough. It’s alright, though, it was just a cut. Not like it ripped my arm off or anything.” Balgruuf said, then remembered he was probably jiking himself into that happening at some point. “Kick a stone.” He kicked the wall superstitiously. 

“Your skills in combat sound impressive.” Ulfric said. 

“Oh, I think I mostly got lucky.” Balgruuf waved the dry compliment off, though he could feel his ego swell. He was starting to like this ‘Ulfric’ man. 

“Are you hungry?” Ulfric asked. 

“I am, actually.” Balgruuf decided after a moment of thought. 

Ulfric gestured for Balgruuf to follow him. “So, how long did it take you to reach High Hrothgar?” 

“A day. I left… actually, what time did you find me?” Balgruuf asked. He’d probably been lying in the snow for a while before this man even found him and, given how well-rested he felt, he had been sleeping for quite a few hours at least. 

“Around eight o’clock,” Ulfric turned down a corridor. “You were sleeping with the offerings.” 

“Never thought a sack of potatoes could be so comfortable.” Balgruuf mused. 

“And it only took you a day to climb the stairs? Even after getting attacked by a Snow Troll?” Ulfric asked. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” Balgruuf told him, smiling, “you don’t often see people?” 

A dark blush rose to his cheeks. “I’m training with the Greybeards. Only one of them speaks, and even then, when pilgrims come, I’m not permitted to speak with them.” 

“Will you get in trouble for speaking with me now?” Balgruuf asked. 

“The Greybeards are visiting the Throat of the World for a few months. I’ve been left here.” Ulfric explained. He opened a door for Balgruuf, who thanked him and stepped through. 

They were in a large dining room, with a high ceiling and huge windows lining the walls in thin slits. Despite their small size and blurry, frost-bitten glass, Balgruuf could vaguely see the shape of the Throat of the World in the distance. 

“They go up there to do a special set of prayers. I’ll be permitted up there after my tenth year.” Ulfric told him, following his gaze. 

“What year are you now?” Balgruuf asked, turning to look at him. 

“My eighth. I passed my twenty-first Winter some months ago.” Ulfric told him. 

Balgruuf smiled. “Congratulations, then.” 

“Oh, thank you.” Ulfric’s face flushed and he fidgeted with his long fingers. “I’ll uh… go prepare some dinner, if you’d like.” 

“Is it midday?” Balgruuf asked. He’d been sleeping for much longer than he’d originally thought, it seemed. 

“Close enough to it. It’s eleven in the morning.” Ulfric gestured to a seat and pulled it out for Balgruuf, indicating that he should sit down. 

Balgruuf did so, watching as Ulfric bustled off into another room, presumably a kitchen. Banging and other cooking-related sounds came from within, so Balgruuf took to tapping on the table idly with his fingers, making noise of some melody he’d heard a few years ago but couldn’t remember the name of. 

After about half an hour, Ulfric came back out of the kitchen with plates and cutlery. He set a plate, knife and fork down in front of Balgruuf, then set his own things down in the spot to Balgruuf’s left. Balgruuf was glad for the closeness, as he didn’t want to have to shout at Ulfric from the opposite side of the table, like he sometimes had to do to his brother back home. Shouting was fairly normal in his home, anyway, but here… it seemed too quiet and sacred a space to do such a thing, like it would be blasphemous to disturb the decided peace that had taken refuge in the air around them. It was, after all, a place holy to Kynareth, so it made perfect sense that it was tranquil. 

Ulfric went back into the kitchen and came out yet again, though this time he had a tray of meat and vegetables, which he set down in front of Balgruuf. 

After serving themselves, they ate, Ulfric asking Balgruuf questions about his home and how it was to be announced as the future Jarl of Whiterun. Balgruuf answered honestly, something he’d learnt over the years charmed anyone he spoke to, enrapturing them with his friendly casualty and making them yield their own friendliness. Ulfric was a little tougher than other audiences, elusive when Balgruuf asked him of his own past, but Balgruuf could gather that he was the son of some sort of noble from Windhelm and had been selected by the Greybeards to train and become one of their fellows. 

Balgruuf indulgently told Ulfric of the war brewing between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, of how many men and women were already being called to arms by the Empire, training for the possibility of war. He told Ulfric of lighter politics also, not wanting to make their conversation too dark and brooding. The Silver-Bloods were of particular interest to Ulfric, as he had never heard of them before and was curious as to how they had so much control over Markarth, owning even large sections of the Hold’s military, something that seemed hardly reasonable in his opinion. Balgruuf found his endless curiosity and questions positively adorable, his heart swelling at the sight of Ulfric’s shining green eyes. 

They sat and spoke for hours, not moving from their seats until it was suppertime. Ulfric left to cook again, coming back with more meat and vegetables. They talked late into the night, only stopping when Ulfric looked out of the window and realised it was nearing midnight. 

Flushed and smiling, he led Balgruuf back to his room and bid him goodnight. 

\---

Balgruuf had been with Ulfric for over a week. His arm had healed perfectly, leaving only a nasty, jagged scar and he had learnt much of the Greybeards, even getting a display of the Voice. Ulfric had (reluctantly) blown a boulder apart by Shouting, his Voice acting as a propellant of wind and slamming into the boulder, splitting it cleanly through the middle, its halves cracking apart like an egg. 

Ulfric seemed rather shy of it, unsure of how to respond when Balgruuf clapped him on the back and grinned widely. Balgruuf let the other man’s shyness slide, choosing to instead compliment his abilities and embarrass him rather than chide him for his quiet nature. Ulfric flushed a vibrant scarlet colour when Balgruuf complimented him, hiding his humble smile away behind his hands. 

“You’re absolutely brilliant.” Balgruuf shook his head in wonder at Ulfric for what was probably the hundredth time that day. “Brilliant.” 

“Really?” Ulfric asked, voice small and soft. 

“By the Nine, yes! Has some fool thought to tell you otherwise?” Balgruuf laughed in a short, disbelieving bark. 

“Arngeir always seems to think I can do better.” Ulfric shrugged. 

“You can always do better, but even what you’re doing right now is incredible!” Balgruuf shook his head in wonder. 

“You compliment me too much.” Ulfric chuckled, a hint of unease tickling his voice. 

Balgruuf grinned. “I compliment you not nearly enough.” 

“Why?” Ulfric tilted his head to the side, a small, curious smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Because you should know how brilliant you are.” Balgruuf said simply. 

“You didn’t want me to compliment you on your fighting skills.” Ulfric said. 

“Oh, no, I definitely did, I just wanted to seem charming and humble, though it appears you’ve taken that position quite for yourself.” Balgruuf grinned when Ulfric’s face blushed darker. “No matter; I’ve still got my good humour and amazing looks.” 

Ulfric smiled shyly. “You certainly have.” 

“Ah, so he flirts back, does he? What a lovely surprise.” Balgruuf raised a teasing eyebrow, tongue poking out between his teeth. 

“I wasn’t sure you were flirting. I thought that perhaps you were teasing.” Ulfric admitted. 

“Only teasing? With someone as pretty as yourself? Certainly not.” Balgruuf frowned, though without any ill-intent to it. 

“I’ve never had a man flirt with me before.” Ulfric looked away from Balgruuf, staring at the ground through his brown lashes. 

Balgruuf nodded. “Have you ever wanted one to?” 

“I’ve never really taken after women, so I suppose so. I don’t know.” Ulfric shrugged, catching himself when he realised he may have sounded too dismissive. “I… don’t mind your flirting.” 

“I’m glad, then. It would have been mighty difficult to stop.” Balgruuf watched gleefully as Ulfric glanced up at him, before his gaze ran away again to focus on the floor. 

Ulfric fidgeted with his fingers uncomfortably. “Would you, uh-” He cut himself short, taking a deep breath and looking up at Balgruuf. “Would you want to come to bed with me?” 

“Oh! We don’t have to, I didn’t mean to pressure you into anything.” Balgruuf chuckled nervously, afraid he may have been too forward. 

“No, no, I want to.” Ulfric glanced away again, then stood, offering a large, slim hand to Balgruuf. 

Balgruuf grasped it firmly. “Lead the way, my dear.” 

\---

It was needless to say that Balgruuf had rather enjoyed his time at High Hrothgar, taking pleasure in the shy and unsure embrace of Ulfric. The man had been so eager to please him, constantly asking (and, of course, receiving) verbal reassurance, his bright green eyes only shining brighter when Balgruuf murmured praise and kissed him. 

As he ascended the steps of High Hrothgar Balgruuf could still taste Ulfric’s lips and tongue, a flavour he didn’t think he’d ever forget. A much fainter taste laid beneath it; that of Ulfric’s body, the large expanses of skin Balgruuf had kissed and bit. Cold air pressed in around him as he trudged through the snow and a part of him was longing for Ulfric’s warm body pressed against his, but another part of him knew he’d never see the man again, that it was pointless to want him. 

Lefar was ecstatic when Balgruuf came back, congratulating him on slaying his first Frost Troll and buying him a drink. He told Balgruuf merrily of the time he spent with his sister and nephews, seeming to understand that Balgruuf didn’t want to tell him about his pilgrimage. 

They travelled back to Whiterun safely and Balgruuf told his family a brief summary of his time at High Hrothgar, skipping over the time spent with Ulfric and instead pretending he spent days by each statue and that was what took up his time. 

“Oh! Did you see a young man at the top of the mountain?” Balgruuf’s father asked. 

“Young man?” Balgruuf asked. 

Balgruuf’s father nodded and snapped his fingers as he tried to jog his memory. “Yes, Jarl Hoag’s boy, Ulfric.” 

Balgruuf’s face paled. “Who?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence/gore and mentions of sexual content (nothing graphic though, I'm not making this series about that). 
> 
> Oh, Balgruuf, you silly little sausage. Gettin' in with Jarl Hoag's boy. He's a real charmer, that Balgruuf. 
> 
> Why the fuck does Balgruuf (a neutral man only looking after the wellbeing and interests of his subjects) get kicked out of Jarlhood when the Stormcloaks take over, but Jarl Elisif (a dumb idiot who's just a big dummy and doesn't even look after the wellbeing of her own people, let alone Skyrim itself) gets to stay? Sorry, I'm still mad about it. Balgruuf's just such a nice guy, I like him and he's the most reasonable person in the entire game! 
> 
> I am well aware this new Ulfric is a complete 180 from my old Ulfric, but this is the Ulfric that I see. Some shy, awkward thing, changed entirely by the horrors of the Great War and forced to become a hardened leader.


End file.
